


Valdo Marx Must Die

by Maimat



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Coercion, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Recovery, Revenge, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 58,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maimat/pseuds/Maimat
Summary: Jaskier's first wish to the djinn — death to his rival, Valdo Marx.Geralt had never thought of Jaskier as particularly bloodthirsty or vengeful, and yet.There is a lot the Witcher doesn't know about his companion.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 354
Kudos: 488





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta-readers! [ Miah_Arthur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/), [ CuteAsAMuntin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuteAsAMuntin/), and [Kazeetease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetease/)
> 
> Tumblr: [ Mai of Rivia](https://www.https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mai-of-rivia/)
> 
> Content note: Creator chooses not to use detailed warnings  
> This fanwork includes:  
> -Violence (sometimes graphic)  
> -Non-consensual situations  
> -Suicide (mentioned)  
> -Hurt/Comfort  
> -No major-character death  
> -The dog is happy and survives  
> -An optimistic (happy) ending  
> -And more

“What do you have against Valdo Marx?”

At the mention of the name, Jaskier’s heart sped up, and the wringing of the shirt in the creek became more like an act of strangling. He shook the embroidered shirt out to check his progress, then thrust the garment into the water again to vigorously rub at the remaining stains. “Any witcher-wisdom for getting blood stains out of silk?” he asked, ignoring the witcher’s question.

Geralt looked up from where he was brewing a herbal expectorant for Jaskier. The rippling water reflected the sunlight into his eyes. “Don’t wear white.” 

Jaskier snorted. “Great advice. Thanks. I’ll consider it the next time I plan to be attacked by a djinn and choke on blood.” 

“Valdo Marx. You wished him dead,” Geralt pressed.

“Think it worked?” 

“The djinn wasn't linked to you.” 

“Shame.” Jaskier sighed. He twitched as a dragonfly hovered close to his ear. 

“Valdo Marx,” Geralt repeated. “He’s that Cidarian troubadour everyone is so wild about, isn’t he? I’ve never understood the attraction.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “His voice is renowned for having perfect pitch and cadence. There are none better.”

“I’ve heard him. Didn’t seem like anything special.” 

“Then you, my dear friend, must be tone-deaf. For only the deaf can say Marx has no talent. It’s not his voice I have an issue with.” Jaskier cleared his throat, coughed, and spat more dark globs into the water. “Fuck. That’s terrible.” Geralt passed the cup of tea, and Jaskier grabbed it and took a mouthful. He gargled and spat. “Eh, and this tastes even worse.” 

“For your throat. It’ll help clear everything out.” 

Jaskier slung the strap of his lute over his shoulder and spat again. “What’s in here? Do I want to know?” 

“Nothing poisonous.” 

Jaskier grimaced and gagged again. He took a drink of tea, spat, then another mouthful to swallow. 

“You should rest.” 

“I rested all day while you had your _nap_.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. He made a face as he regarded the still stained shirt. “The Countess de Stael bought this for me.”

"Sentimental value?”

“It's expensive. Or at least, it was. Only good for rags now.” 

“Jaskier, about the djinn — " 

Jaskier wrung the shirt out again. Despite calling it a rag, he smoothed the fine, if battered, silk out and laid it flat on the rock to dry in the sun. "Did you tell the djinn to swell my throat shut and try to kill me? No? Then I don’t think we have anything to discuss." 

And so they didn’t.

After leaving Rinde — and the enigmatic Yennefer — behind, Jaskier joined Geralt’s path with nothing more than the clothes on his back. It had taken most of the crowns Geralt had on hand, coin meant for replenishing his supplies, to equip Jaskier with the bare minimum of what he needed. 

Jaskier sold the outfit he’d worn the day of the djinn, and he had yet to save enough to buy anything more suited to his profession. The best they could afford was a simple brown padded jacket with leather trim over an undyed peasant shirt, hunting trousers, and plain leather boots. It didn't suit him. The one exception was a bright purple scarf that appeared suddenly around Jaskier’s neck without explanation as they walked past a fancy noble woman’s garden. Geralt didn’t ask. 

Oddly, the bard didn’t complain. No, he did complain. Constantly. About other bards, about court politics and intrigues, about the smell of honeysuckle, and something sticky he’d walked through that stuck to his trousers. But not about the low quality of the clothes they’d scrounged or the musty smell clinging to the used bedroll and blankets bought from the tanner. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier spread out his arms as he walked through the gates of the village of Spork. “Alas we will replenish our spirits and enjoy a respite from dirt and mosquitoes.”

“And by spirits you mean—” 

“Alcohol. Of course, I mean alcohol.” 

“We’d have plenty if you hadn’t drunk it all.” 

Jaskier stepped in a puddle of mud, Geralt wrinkled his nose, mostly mud, and hopped around as he shook his foot in the air. The village consisted of one road, a large pig sty, an inn, and plenty of cottages in various stages of disrepair. An orange cat arched its back and hissed as they walked by. 

After a brief negotiation with the innkeeper, Jaskier hopped up on the makeshift stage and started plying his trade. It was early yet for entertainment, but the tavern already had local talent slotted for later. 

Long tables scored by years of use lined the hall. Tusks on mounted plaques commemorated prize boars. The place was mostly empty, just two tables occupied by old men. A cloud of pipe smoke hung around their heads as they talked and played cards. Jaskier adapted to his surroundings, didn't take it personally, and played for the crowd. In this instance, that meant sticking to instrumental jigs without attracting attention. 

Not a good draw for tips. 

Jaskier earned only two coppers from the entire time he stood up there, one of which had been a tip left to the tavern maid that she flicked into his lute case. Jaskier had winked at the comely maid in thanks. 

"Looks like I might not be sleeping in the stable tonight after all," Jaskier said under his breath as he rejoined Geralt at the table. 

“We already have a room,” Geralt reminded him.

Jaskier rolled his coins around his fingers, palming them, and making them disappear and reappear. 

The serving girl came around their table, one hand on her hip. "What’ll you have?"

“Potatoes and beans, love,” Jaskier ordered.

She hesitated before turning to Geralt, reluctant to meet his eye. “You?”

“Stew, two bowls. More ale.” 

She nodded and scurried off. 

Jaskier leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes fluttered shut as his head nodded forward. 

"You're tired." 

“Hadn't noticed,” Jaskier sucked in a breath and sat up straight. "I’ve barely had a chance to sit down since noon. On the up-side, I'll get to listen to someone else play tonight — local talent. The crowd is saving their coppers for her. I’m so looking forward to sleeping in a bed. What, do you think, are the odds they’ve got decent stuffing in their mattresses here?" 

"Little to none. How do you finish an entire season of employment with less than what you started with?" 

"Talent," Jaskier grinned, but his expression didn’t reflect the light tone. 

The serving girl returned to deliver a platter of two bowls of stew and the plate of potatoes and beans. Geralt pushed the second stew at Jaskier. 

“You don’t need to—”

“Eat. It’s the hanged-mans road after this.” 

“We're headed toward White Orchard? Fuck. Can’t we take a different road?” Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunched down and he pulled the plate closer. Of course, the hanged-mans road wasn’t the official name of the route, it’s what Jaskier had called it on their first pass and the name had stuck. 

“The fastest route." 

"Think they've still got the same magistrate? The man had no love for me the last time we passed through. I'd hate to join his grisly display of trophies." 

"You shouldn't have slept with his mother."

Jaskier laughed. "Ah, but that part was worth it. Griselda, she was like fine wine. I should look her up when—" He paused as a young woman wearing green hose and doublet, stepped up on the corner platform and raised a flute to her lips. 

Jaskier’s expression darkened as he listened. 

“You don’t like flutes?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier flinched but then shook his head and smiled. “Flutes are fine. The song, however.” 

“What’s wrong with it? Her voice isn’t so bad.”

Jaskier made a face. "The song, Geralt. I didn't say anything about her singing. She's lovely. It's the choice of—" But before Jaskier finished answering, the young woman clapped her hands. 

“We’ve got a special guest with us this evening! Jaskier the Bard! Third Place winner in the Oxenfurt Winter Festival of the Arts.” 

“Second place,” Jaskier whispered to Geralt with a smirk. But he smiled and hopped to his feet to give a bow at the acknowledgement. “Thank you!” 

"Will you join me?" she called out. “I offer a share of the pot our fine audience imparts on us.”

Jaskier had barely had a chance to taste the stew, but he responded without missing a beat. "I am honoured. However—” 

The young woman continued, "And since I have with me a former protege of the famous Valdo Marx, it is my pleasure to dedicate this evening to The Grand Troubadour of Cidaris!"

Jaskier blinked. "There’s no need—”

"Please, you studied with Master Valdo himself," the young woman pleaded. “You have no idea how much I envy you!”

Geralt tilted his head. _Valdo Marx_. The same Valdo Marx Jaskier had wished death to only a week ago? 

Jaskier smiled and threw up his hands, "Can't say no to that, can I?" he teased, and the crowd responded with cheers. He scooped up his lute and sprung up to the stage as though he hadn't nearly fallen asleep at the table. 

The songs were all familiar. Jaskier's voice was off. Strained. No one else seemed to notice. Popular in taverns across the Northern Kingdoms. Love ballads sopping with sentimental imagery and long keening tones. Geralt had never heard Jaskier sing any of them before. And yet, the bard knew all the notes and all the words. 

The barmaid came to clear away the plates, but Geralt stayed her hand. "Take it up to the room for us." She backed quickly away from Geralt’s presence and scurried off. 

The bards made an excellent duo, and the crowd loved the performance. Jaskier followed the local woman's lead perfectly. He waved at the barmaid between songs, and she brought him fresh tankards of ale on the house. How many so far?

And another. 

Jaskier rarely drank excessively while performing, preferring to wait for his set to finish before imbibing. Geralt recalled only a handful of times it had happened, and each had been a disaster. 

A woman yelled out, "Play ' _Once More In My Arms_!”

Jaskier kept his gaze firmly fixed above the crowd. "Do you know I wrote this one? Of course not. Yes, yes, I’ll play it, have care." The room quieted. Jaskier grinned at the rapt attention. "This song is about love. Aren’t they all, though?" 

And the crowd roared with laughter. 

Encouraged even further, Jaskier cleared his throat. He started slow and increased the rhythm as it continued. 

_Though the night is long And we've come and gone Will you grant me one last wish As the sun rises You are full of surprises Wanton, with promises of bliss..._

Jaskier's voice trailed off and he missed the last note on the lute. But, he snapped out of whatever state he'd fallen into and smiled at his singing partner.

"I'm sure you will do it far better justice than I." Jaskier sat watching Lara as she picked up the verse. And then there were more demands for livelier fair, and Jaskier joined back in, and the entire tavern sang along, thumping their fists on the table in rhythm. 

Jaskier’s voice grew hoarse, and he swayed on his feet. He lifted the strap of his lute over his head and bowed, “Apologies, fine ladies and gentlemen. I am completely knackered and can no longer do justice to—” he lost his balance and stumbled. “To standing erect.” 

Laughter followed his clumsy descent from the stage. The patrons who had ignored him earlier clapped him on the back. Jaskier mingled, jostled by a multitude of arms pulling him forward and back. He seemed content to flow with the tide of attention, smiling, flirting. Jaskier, in these moods, loved everyone. 

Geralt was not jealous. _He wasn’t._

Not for the first time, Geralt thought back to Posada and their first meeting. Jaskier had approached him with the same rapt focus and wonder. He didn’t understand it then, if anything the attention had been uncomfortable. But, back then, companionship had been foreign. Jaskier had wormed his way into Geralt’s life, and now he longed for that attention with an unquenching thirst. 

Geralt watched Jaskier practically _make love_ to the audience, and reminded himself this was what Jaskier regularly did. This was who he was. Jaskier was like this with everyone, Geralt had no illusions that Jaskier’s attention toward him was any different. 

The barmaid who’d been flirting with Jaskier earlier circled the bard like a vulture. She brought him yet another glass of ale while casting frequent glances toward the back of the room where a young man her age glared back with angry eyes. With the angry young man’s attention confirmed, the barmaid licked at Jaskier’s ear. 

Usually, Geralt stayed out of Jaskier’s choice of bedmates, only stepping in to save the bard from trouble if it happened. The fact that it happened a lot didn’t alter Geralt’s stance on interfering. 

If Jaskier’d been in a position to understand the risk, Geralt would have risen his mug of ale and wished him luck. But the bard was several ales away from understanding much of anything, 

If Geralt allowed Jaskier to go with this woman, he’d more than likely find the bard beaten and discarded in a ditch somewhere come morning. He wasn’t about to let that happen.

Geralt wound his way through the crowd of people and slipped in beside him. "You've had enough. There's food waiting for you in our room." 

Jaskier nearly fell over when he turned his head. Geralt wound his arm around Jaskier's waist and steered him away from the barmaid. He thought he heard something from the woman along the lines of _mutant._ She could say what she wanted. The bard was coming with him. 

Jaskier attempted to whirl around, but Geralt gripped his shoulders tighter. They’d leave this place tomorrow and Jaskier wouldn't even remember the barmaid existed. 

“My lute!” Jaskier twisted at the last moment and ineffectually grabbed at his instrument on the stage. 

Geralt picked it up and slung it over his arm. "Got it. Up we go."

They made it two steps up the stairs before Geralt got tired of the hassle and hoisted Jaskier over his shoulder. Much simpler. He got Jaskier inside their room, kicked the door, and leaned forward to place Jaskier back on his feet. Jaskier’s knees crumpled and he sank into a boneless heap on the floor.

Even though the furnishings were limited to one bed and a table, the space was small enough to make it challenging to maneuver. Having to navigate a limp uncoordinated bard around was no easy feat. 

"Shit." He should leave Jaskier there and take the bed for himself. Not like the bard would notice. He’d done his duty, thwarted a potential jealous lover’s plot. 

How many times had Geralt returned to Jaskier, exhausted, strung out on potions, and covered in monster blood and gore? How many times had Jaskier taken care of him? Helped remove his armour, treat his wounds, and ensure a decent rest by ushering him to his bed? 

No, Geralt couldn't repay the favor by leaving Jaskier to sleep it off on the floor. He hoisted the drunk bard onto the bed. It was going to be a long night.


	2. Drunk and Over-tired

Geralt knelt at the edge of the bed, unlaced Jaskier’s boots, and tossed them aside. Next, he pulled Jaskier up by the collar of his tunic and started working on the ties.

“Geralt?” 

“What?” 

Jaskier looked cross-eyed down at Geralt’s hands, fumbling with the strings and laughed. “I’ve always wanted you to undress me.” 

Geralt let him drop. “Do it yourself.”

Thus ensued a long, drawn-out wrestling match between Jaskier and his chemise until finally, trapped with the shirt over his head and hands stuck in the sleeves, he begged for help. Geralt took pity and yanked the shirt off the rest of the way. 

“Trousers next?” Jaskier grinned, thrusting his hips forward for effect.

“You did the tunic. I’m sure you can manage.” 

“What if I don’t want to manage?” 

“Then you can sleep in your clothes.” Geralt turned away to check his armour — not a necessary task, but an essential distraction. 

“I’m too tired to move,” Jaskier moaned. 

“Then sleep,” Geralt suggested. 

“You can do whatever you want. Why don’t you?” 

Hackles rose on Geralt’s neck and he turned around to see Jaskier watching him. Jaskier’s tone had changed, becoming husky. 

“You want to,” Jaskier whispered, licking his lips. 

“What I want is to inspect my armour.” 

Jaskier pulled his legs up onto the bed and wiggled further up. “You could do so much more than that.” 

“You’re drunk and overtired.” 

“I won’t stop you. Come join me.” 

Geralt had seen Jaskier drunk. Geralt had seen Jaskier horny. The bard had done nothing like this. He left his armour and came to sit on the bed beside Jaskier.

“What’s wrong with you?” He rested his hand lightly on Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier’s heart rate felt normal. He looked into Jaskier’s eyes: glassy. Unfocused, but not alarmingly so. “Did someone slip drugs in your ale?” He’d have to keep a close eye on Jaskier through the night, if that were the case. 

“I’ll be good. Do whatever you want,” Jaskier whispered again. He lifted his arms over his head and linked his fingers together. “Do you prefer if I’m loud or quiet?” 

“I want you to sleep.” Geralt answered. 

“I knew — I’ve always known you aren’t like him.” Jaskier blinked suddenly and choked on his breath as he curled up on his side. “I didn’t know what she was going to do.”

“Who? What happened?” Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, unable to keep up with Jaskier’s muddled thoughts. 

“I should have done more.” And with that admission, Jaskier curled up even tighter. 

“You’ll feel better in the morning.” What else could he say when he did not understand what the problem was? 

Geralt stayed by Jaskier’s side until his breathing evened out with sleep.

Geralt placed his bedroll on the floor near the door and lay down. He had never seen Jaskier come apart like this before. It could be trauma from the Djinn magic, but Geralt didn’t think that was it. What had Jaskier said about the Countess leaving him that day by the lake?

“ _I shall die a heartbroken man or a hungry one._ ” Had Jaskier fallen in love with the Countess? It made sense. The Countess de Stael was a beautiful woman — and a wealthy one. 

Geralt woke up to daylight. He’d shifted in the night to face the door. The creak of a floorboard near his head warned him a moment before he heard Jaskier’s voice.

“Geralt?” 

He rolled onto his back. Jaskier knelt at his side, eyes bloodshot and eyebrows scrunched in a worried frown. “Feeling better?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier rocked back and released a nervous laugh. “Yes. I need to apologize. For last night.” 

Geralt sat up but didn’t interrupt. Jaskier smelled sour with sweat. 

“I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was indefensible of me to strain our friendship in such a way.” 

“Why did you?” Geralt asked, not denying the supposition.

Jaskier cleared his throat and gave a middling simulation of a playful grin. “You thwarted my attempts at getting laid. Typical drunk decision making?” 

Geralt pressed his lips together in a slight grimace and brushed his fingertips across Jaskier’s wrist. He’d lain awake into the early morning contemplating Jaskier’s uncharacteristic behaviour, and the only conclusion he’d come to was that, whatever the motive, the action had not been malicious.

“I didn’t mean to drive you to sleep on the floor.” Jaskier shifted and rubbed at his neck.

Geralt sat up and looked Jaskier in the eye. “If I ever make a move like that, you will not be drunk. It will not be because you can’t stop me. You’ll want it, and I’ll accept nothing less than your full enthusiasm.” 

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed a few times, speechless.

Geralt patted Jaskier on the shoulder and stood. Whatever had happened had been an aberration, and Geralt refused to waste time making it into more than it deserved. “You barely ate anything last night before poisoning yourself with all that alcohol. Get dressed, and we’ll find some breakfast.” 

Jaskier followed suit, stretching and squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window.

Geralt took pity and fetched the small vial. “Wife’s Tears,” he explained as he passed it to Jaskier. 

“Should I ask where you found a wife to collect her tears for you?” 

“It’s a mixture of ginger and turmeric. Drink.” 

Jaskier popped the little cork off the top and made a sour face as he swallowed it down. “Thank you. That was vile.” 

“How much do you recall about last night?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier sat on the bed to pull his boots on. “You mean debasing myself and insulting you wasn’t enough? Did I perform lewd acts on stage? Scandalise a poor innocent milkmaid? No? Didn’t think so. Memory lapses have never been one of my blessings. I remember all my misdeeds in excruciating detail.”

“Tell me about Valdo Marx. His name has a strong effect on you.” 

“What is there to tell?” Jaskier snorted. “Upon entering the Academy, I had the supreme honour of being chosen as a protege by the Golden-voiced Troubadour of Cidaris. May I forever be grateful and sing his praises.” 

“I thought you enjoyed your time in Oxenfurt.” 

“I did. Immensely,” Jaskier insisted as the sarcasm from earlier vanished. He pulled on his leather jacket and inspected the meal he hadn’t touched the night before. “Oof. I hope this smelled better yesterday.” 

“Much,” Geralt agreed. 

“Marx is a celebrity who wields his authority like a vice. I was under his thumb for several years, under the impression that he wished to impart upon me his wisdom and skill of the bardic arts. By the time I escaped his influence, I’d been used and humiliated in every way imaginable, my reputation smeared beyond repair, and left with the choice to either return home in disgrace or remake myself into something better. Thus, I found you in Posada.” 

The singsong tone undermined the seriousness of what Jaskier shared. “You’ve done well for yourself,” Geralt concluded.

“And yet, here I am, a destitute vagabond once again,” Jaskier sighed. “Geralt, would you consider a detour on our path to White Orchard? If not, I understand, but I would appreciate your company on the road if you can spare it.” 

It wasn’t so much as a question as a lead into a suggestion. “Where do you want to go?” 

“Cidaris.” 

“Cidaris,” Geralt stated, “is in the opposite direction of White Orchard.”

Jaskier leaned against the table, waiting. 

“Do you have a route in mind?” 

The tension in Jaskier’s shoulders eased, and he smiled, a genuine smile this time. “I do. We can follow the Pontar then take the Pilgrims Road between Novigrad and Gors Velen.”

Geralt pulled his old worn map out of his saddlebag and spread it on the table. “Here?” He pointed at the road he thought Jaskier meant. 

Jaskier studied it for a while. “And then here, around the glade of the Ancient Oak. This one here is the Pilgrims Road. How old is this map? They changed the name about forty years ago to commemorate the procession of Druids who fell prey to a griffon en route to—” 

“I remember it.” 

“You do? Were you there?” 

“No, they never issued a contract to investigate the massacre.”

“Massacre? As in deliberate attack? But a royal griffin killed the Druids! The histories are clear on that. Watchtowers still stand guard.” 

“And in the years since, those watchtowers have never spotted a griffin.” 

Jaskier contemplated that for a minute. “No griffins, but they form strategic posts from which to monitor the traffic between Novigrad and Thanedd. Oh, interesting.”

They headed down for breakfast and helped themselves to a serving of sausages and boiled eggs. “We should avoid Rinde,” Jaskier reasoned. Geralt agreed. 

The barmaid from the night before slammed two ale mugs on the table. 

Jaskier smiled at her, “Thank you, love. Did you patch things up between you and your man?” 

Geralt choked on his first sip. Jaskier had known about the jealous lover hovering in the background?

The barmaid blushed, but the sour expression didn’t ease from her lips. “Tobias was in a right fit by the time I made it home. Had I known your reputation, I’d have never sought your company.” She dug a pouch out of a pocket of her skirt. “Lena left this. Your portion of the tips last night.” 

Jaskier accepted the pouch and weighed it in his hand. “Fair. Does she live in town? I’d like to offer my thanks.”

“Best not to. Tobias just returned from a job in Rinde. He knows of your name, _bard_.” She spat the title like an insult. “You’re lucky he waited until after the show before informing everyone what kind of man you are.” 

Geralt exhaled a puff of breath and leaned his elbows on the table. “You sure left an impression in Rinde, didn’t you?”

“And you didn't? In any case, I don’t want to discuss it,” Jaskier groaned. 

Geralt tapped a finger on the table. “You were aware the maid had a jealous boyfriend and pursued her anyway.” 

“I was in a mood.” He passed the pouch of coins to Geralt. “We should leave here.”

Whatever mood that was, Geralt hoped Jaskier had worked it out of his system. 

They set out soon after that. Geralt noted a crack in Roach’s saddle strap. There’d be enough coin from what Jaskier made the night before to cover the repairs. The stable hand recommended a competent saddler in New Haven. It would be as good a place as any to make their next stop. 


	3. Riot!

The day passed peacefully. The bard and the witcher joined up with a farmer and his daughter taking a goat to market. Jaskier was more than happy to use the opportunity to entertain the young girl and made up silly rhymes about her raven-coloured hair, teasing that it would take to the wind and join its sisters and brothers in flight if her braids should come loose. However, their paths diverged after lunch, and the pair were alone on the road again.

“What’s so important in Cidaris?” Geralt asked.

“Marx has a private concert hall there,” Jaskier answered in a deceptively light tone as if Geralt wasn’t aware of the bard’s intense hatred of the man.

“You wished him dead only a week ago and nearly choked while singing his songs last night.”

“Don’t fret. I don’t intend to stab anyone, nor would I ever ask you to do so on my behalf.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “He was at the festival. There are matters left unresolved between us that must be addressed.”

“Addressed how?”

“I’ve not decided yet.” Geralt let him be after a few more evasive responses, and the pair continued their hike.

Avoiding Rinde meant more forest trails, and Geralt was relieved to return to camping. They set up camp in a clearing off the side of the road.

Jaskier poked the end of a stick into the fire, then lifted it to watch the flame. “I lost a friend this winter.”

“Illness?”

“No. A tragedy. I should have done more to save her.”

Geralt focused on sharpening his blade. He knew better than to offer advice.

Jaskier waved his stick in little circles, making patterns in the dark. “Do you have regrets?”

“More than I can carry.”

Jaskier tossed his stick into the flames. “Perhaps I’ll lighten mine in Cidaris.”

...

The town of New Haven lay sprawled between fields of wheat and barley. It appeared pleasant at first glance, with clean, boarded sidewalks and well-tended gardens—Geralt intended to visit the saddler.

Jaskier eyed the foreboding presence of a permanent gallows and stocks placed next to the main stage in the town square, but that didn’t deter him for long. He swallowed and bit his lip. “I’ll be just over there, not far.”

The saddler’s shop smelled of leather and horses. Upon entering, Geralt stopped directly in front of an elaborate shrine to the Eternal Fire. The white herald with the center flame hung on the wall, and below, stood a small replica of the Chalice of Fire complete with a burning candle.

One look at the saddler, and Geralt knew it was time to move on. The man settled his eyes on him, lifted his chin, and sneered.

Geralt turned to leave, but Jaskier jogged up to the door and skipped around him to enter. “I’m taking the stage this afternoon. They were so eager to have me perform, they offered me a full meal at the Flying Fish Inn. That should give enough time to get Roach’s saddle fixed, right? Uh, Geralt? Why are you leaving? ”

“It’ll keep for the next town.”

“But you said—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, but the bard’s attention had already shifted to the shrine on the wall.

“Take your abomination and go.” The saddler spat at Jaskier’s boots.

“Oh.” Jaskier stepped back. “My _abomination_?”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s arm and dragged him out the door.

Jaskier resisted. Geralt didn’t let go. “Yes. Guess we’ll be off then.” Jaskier relented as he had no choice but to follow.

Clear of the shop, Geralt released him. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Me? No, of course not.”

“Expecting different is a waste of time. Don’t be offended on my behalf.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips. “And maybe that’s precisely why someone should.”

Geralt considered the matter settled. He dug his old cloak out of Roach’s saddlebag and slung it over his shoulder. Being rejected by one saddler didn’t make the rest of the town’s market off-limits. “Go, do your thing. I’ll check if the armourer is worth hiring.”

Apparently not. The armourer had died a month earlier.

“He was experimenting with new concoction with griffin acid. Real secret-like, wouldn’t even let me look at it. Locked all the doors tight. Too tight. The fumes got ‘im. What a sight. His eyes had near-well popped from his head by the time I came in to work the next morning. Eh, I’m trying to keep things running, even though I’m just the apprentice. Name’s Trent, I can do minor jobs for you, patchwork, and the like.”

Geralt passed him his vest, “Think you can handle this?” he asked, showing the claw mark left on the back from his last encounter with a ghoul.

“A bit much for my skill, sorry to say. Good artistry on the leather. Wow, how big of a claw is needed to make a tear like that?”

They started talking, and Geralt proposed a hand of Gwent. The apprentice took him up on the offer and led him to the back room.

“I noticed you’ve got representatives of the Eternal Fire in town,” Geralt hedged.

Trent laughed. “They consider themselves a secret club. Not so secret when you parade around with your torches like that. The trouble is, half the members are wealthy tradesmen. Used to be that there’d be all sorts here. We had a gnome herbalist here a while back, good one too, he brewed a tea for my grandmother when she fell ill last winter, saved her life, I wager. But—some bastard torched his shop. Gah, I don’t even know if the little guy escaped. No one dared go near the wreckage for weeks. The elven tailor made a wise choice and got the hell out of here before they could do the same to him.”

“What about you?”

“I’m just one man, not a very strong one at that. What would they care what I think? I’m beneath their notice. My late master—oh, he was right in with them, like a burr on a boar’s backside.”

The noise level rose outside, shouting out in the square. Geralt ignored it. He’d already won the first round of Gwent and suspected he’d win the next. Or, he was willing to ignore it until he heard a familiar voice in the mix.

Jaskier. Fuck. What now.

He swiped up his cards.

“You forfeit?” Trent asked joyfully.

“Yes.” He tossed the coin he’d wagered onto the table and stood. “If this is nothing, I want a re-match.”

“You’re on.” Trevor agreed and followed him out.

It wasn’t nothing.

Jaskier stood in the middle of the road, arms spread, taunting. “Why don’t you give me your weapon so I can hit myself, because you hit like an asthmatic six-year-old!”

“Why don’t you come and take it from me?” The saddler snapped his whip into the air.

“I would, but your breath would put an otyugh off its breakfast!”

The saddler rushed forward and snapped his whip again as Jaskier skipped sideways to get out of the way, or he would have if another man hadn’t grabbed his arm and yanked him off his feet. Jaskier flinched as the lash hit his thigh and twisted ineffectively shake off the grasp of the man holding him.

Geralt strode into the mix. “Enough.”

“Step aside, mutant. Unless you want a piece taken out of your hide too. This cox-comb attacked me in my establishment, I demand—”

“Attacked!” Jaskier laughed. “Hardly,” he attempted to shrug off the grip as another man grabbed his arms from behind. “All I said was your mother must have fucked a drowner—oh sorry, or was your mother the drowner and your father—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

But Jaskier didn’t skip a beat. “You’re deluded! No shrine will protect you better than a witcher!”

“Blasphemer. The Eternal Fire denounces all those who consort with unnatural beasts as no more than beasts themselves.”

Jaskier fell a moment later to a fist hitting his jaw, followed by a kick to the stomach, which flipped him onto his back and stole his breath. Geralt shoved the attacker away before he could kick the bard again.

A tall, balding man with a massive belly protruding from his long red and white robe strode forward. “Everyone knows witchers are the unnatural creations of foul sorcery,” he proclaimed in a deep resounding voice. All others fell silent at his proclamation. In a demonstration of respect, the crowd stepped back two paces and bowed their heads.

Jaskier gasped to catch his breath. “I’d like to see how foul you think they are the next time you face a swamp hag, you bulbous swine.”

“You dare speak to me, a holy priest of the Fire, in such a way?” The priest exclaimed.

“Fabricator!” a man from the crowd hollered. “You’re that witcher’s bard, ain’t yeh? We’ve heard of you.”

“Fabricator?” Jaskier squeaked.

“We shall cleanse his soul with the fire of truth.” The Priest exclaimed, “Flem, fetch the branding iron.”

“You’ll not touch him.” Geralt shouted above the cheers.

“Silence, Mutant! Your kind holds no power here. This unfortunate man has succumbed to the sway of evil forces. The Holy Fire will set him free!”

“Bullshit.” Jaskier, one arm over his stomach, coughed and fumbled back onto his feet. “Bring on your fucking iron, you ass-hat. Let’s test this flame and see how true it is.”

“Jaskier, stop,” Geralt shouted. He turned back to the men surrounding them. Their blades were already brandished. Geralt reached over his shoulder to grip his steel sword. “If we cross swords, I assure you the outcome will not be in your favour. Back off, and we’ll leave peacefully.”

“Like flying fucks we will,” Jaskier countered. “You all assume you’re so pure and favoured. Like nothing can touch you. Just wait, you’ll get what’s coming to you. How well is your precious Fire going to protect you when ghouls start digging up your ancestor’s graves?”

“He curses us!” a woman screamed. “Devil!”

A man came running back with an iron, and as the priest raised his arms in the air and voiced an incantation, the tip of the iron turned red with heat. Apparently, they weren’t against their own acolytes using magic.

Geralt considered casting _aard_ to push the crowd back, but Jaskier would get caught in the blast. His thoughts flashed back to Blaviken, streets running with blood from a fight that should never have happened.

The man thrust the hot iron at Jaskier.

“Aack! Fuck, you bastards,” Jaskier held his hand over the burn on his upper arm. “May worms eat your eyes and your tongue rot and—”

“Burn the devil out of him before he summons worse upon us!” the leader screamed.

Geralt drew his steel sword. He turned on Jaskier and flicked his fingers in the sign of _axii_. “Jaskier, be calm.”

The bard went suddenly silent and swayed on his feet.

“Sorcery!”

“If you wish to see tomorrow, back off.” Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s arm and tugged him closer. “We’ll not come back.” He led Jaskier toward Roach. The mob held back, and he sheathed the sword and took Roach’s reins. The crowd jeered and spat from afar as he led Roach and Jaskier away. Let them shout and make empty threats. His blades were clean, and Jaskier was whole. It could have gone so much worse.


	4. Axii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt stopped at a stream just outside the town to inspect Jaskier’s wound. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he grumbled as he settled Jaskier on a stone. The bard didn’t respond. Geralt hated the empty look in his eyes.

Geralt stopped at a stream just outside the town to inspect Jaskier’s wound. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he grumbled as he settled Jaskier on a stone. The bard didn’t respond. Geralt hated the empty look in his eyes.

The iron had burned a hole in Jaskier’s doublet. “You’ll be alright, I’ll take care of you.” Geralt carefully slid Jaskier’s arm from the sleeve to examine the red and blistered skin. It could have been worse. Jaskier sat impassive, calm, as Geralt rinsed the wound with water. He ground a mix of chamomile and eucalyptus into a paste and spread a thick covering over the area. Jaskier didn’t react. Geralt wrapped a bandage around his arm and gently eased the slack limb back into the sleeve. 

_Axii_ had been the last resort. Using it on Jaskier left a foul taste in Geralt’s mouth. 

“Did you want them to hurt you? Or did you want me to hurt them?”

Jaskier sat where Geralt had placed him, arms limp on his lap, gaze vacant. Calm.

“Fuck.”

He hadn’t been able to think of a better solution. He should have thought harder.

Gerald helped Jaskier onto Roach and continued along the trail until they were several hours away from New Haven. The distance made it less likely the zealots would come after them with pitchforks and torches after sundown. Or so was the hope.

He found a clearing to set camp and helped Jaskier off the horse. “Sit.”

Jaskier sat.

 _Fuck_. 

The obedience was unnerving.

Geralt wrapped extra blankets around Jaskier’s shoulders. Axii left the body cold. It worried him that the bard remained insensate to the world around them.

He lit the fire manually, wanting nothing to do with his damn magic. It shouldn’t take this long to shake off the effects. The possibility of having damaged Jaskier permanently with witcher-magic turned Geralt’s stomach. He lunged forward to brush a spider off Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier didn’t flinch.

 _Fuck_. 

He collected a pot of water and set it to boiling and unwrapped two portions of dried meat and roots. Geralt tossed another log on the fire. 

First came the shivering. Geralt took it as a positive sign and fed the fire higher. Then came the small convulsive movements in Jaskier’s fingers; his hands clenching and relaxing spasmodically.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was barely a whisper. 

“I’m here.” Geralt moved to Jaskier’s side. He wrapped his hand gently around the back of Jaskier’s neck and offered a prayer to Melitele. “You’re back.”

Jaskier licked his lips and nodded. “What happened?”

“During or after you started a riot?” Geralt withdrew, his relief running cold now that he had to explain what he’d done.

“Ah, that. I didn’t mean—” Jaskier paused and winced. “Ow. Did I hit my head?”

Geralt passed him the cup of herbal water. “Drink this.”

Jaskier grabbed the cup and drank it all in one go, wincing as he moved his arm. “What happened? Was I in a fight?”

“Your head is fine. I cast axii on you.” Geralt admitted.

Jaskier rubbed the heel of his hand on his forehead. “Axii? That hand-wavy thing? That’s not, no. I remember that one. You used it on me that time with that spiny flying snake with the fucking terrible venom.” Jaskier shuddered. “I felt like my skin was on fire, but you used the sign, and the pain went away.”

Geralt pulled a bottle of dwarven spirits out of Roach’s bag and popped the cork. He took a long gulp and passed it to Jaskier. “It doesn’t ease the pain. I’m a witcher. Sign magics aren’t meant to comfort. I ordered you not to feel pain; and so, you didn’t.”

Jaskier took another drink and pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders. “Mind control? Do you use it often?” His voice was brittle, weak with fatigue.

“Only when I must.”

“Why-why not?” Jaskier asked. “You could make anyone do anything. Some asshole insults you; you can tell them where to shove it. Every time you tell me to shut up, you could have forced me to obey you.”

“It’s not a toy, Jaskier. I try not to use it at all.”

Jaskier leaned forward. “With that kind of power, you could make me do whatever you want.”

“It’s not power. It’s manipulation. I shouldn’t have used it on you.”

Jaskier placed his hand over Geralt’s and rubbed his thumb over the witcher’s knuckles. “And yet you did. But you won’t use it on me again. Because you care about our—” Jaskier faltered on the words. “You care.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Geralt listened to Jaskier’s heart pounding. “Are you frightened?”

“Of you? Gods, no. Should I be?”

“I hope not.”

Jaskier moved his arm again and grimaced. “My doublet is ruined. When did you treat the burn?”

“Outside of New Haven.”

“The last thing I remember is yelling at the asshole with the branding iron.”

“You cursed them.”

“Did not! Nothing I said had any power to it.”

“They didn’t know that. Those fanatics were ready to burn the evil out of you.”

“You wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“You’re right.” Geralt acknowledged.

“They shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“Jaskier, there was no they.”

“Geralt, I didn’t mean for things to escalate so horribly.”

“You never do, do you?” Geralt scrubbed a hand over his face. “Never mind. I was having a round of cards with the blacksmith when the yelling started. You made me forfeit the game.”

“I’ll play you later to make up for it.” 

“You cheat.” Geralt remained still as Jaskier shifted closer. The bard shimmied right up to his side.

“I’m cold. Are you cold?”

Geralt placed his arm around Jaskier’s shoulder. “Better?”

Jaskier grinned. “Much. And, by the way, how dare you say I cheat at Gwent. You’ve never caught me.”

“Hm. We’ll see.”

~~~

Jaskier considered it a point of pride that he could cheat without Geralt catching him. Unfortunately, his tricks didn’t always work on other people. He wished he knew what he was doing differently with the witcher because not getting caught would be a handy skill to have in taverns among less-friendly players.

They played Gwent, Jaskier did cheat, and yet Geralt won.

Jaskier’s emotions ran high, but rarely did they run away so completely. No matter how upset he got, behaving like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum wasn’t his usual style.

Fuck. He was a mess. The winter had been fantastic until the Countess ditched him at the festival. No, he couldn’t blame her. She did what anyone in her position would have done.

“Tell me what happened with the saddler,” Geralt prompted.

Jaskier rubbed at his mouth. “We had words.”

“Interesting words, as I recall.”

Jaskier laughed. “Not my most poetic of insults. I could have done better.”

A grunt.

Geralt didn’t seem angry. He should have been livid. Jaskier’s actions had led to Geralt drawing his weapon in a town. Geralt had been charitable to describe what happened as a riot. Potential massacre was closer to the truth. Geralt was the White-Wolf, friend of humanity. Because of Jaskier’s inability to keep his mouth shut, Geralt had been one step away from reclaiming the title of Butcher in a single afternoon.

Not that it would matter for much longer. Greater forces were at work, and it was only a matter of time before the rumours spread.

“I returned to inform the saddler that his words were out of line. Since you exterminate the very monsters they are so keen to purge, you’d think fanatics of his ilk would be more than happy to assist in your trade. And, ugh, can you imagine what he said?”

“Yes.”

“I sincerely hope you can’t.”

“I’ve heard it all before.”

“It’s not worth the breath.” Jaskier wanted to spit at the thought of the vile things the saddler had insinuated.

Geralt filled in the blanks. “Which was it? That witchers fleece money out of ignorant farmers, faking the monsters or luring them to villages to wreak havoc? Or the bit about deriving sexual pleasure from inflicting pain. Such slander is nothing new, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stood up and paced. “How can you be so nonchalant about it?”

“Witchers don’t suffer emotions.”

“Bollocks.” Jaskier rounded on him. “I’ve known you too long to believe such drivel.”

“Don’t romanticise what I am,” Geralt countered. “You spout enough nonsense in those songs you sing.”

“Do not. The monsters are real. Every ballad I write in your honour is built on the backbone of truth. True, I do embellish. It’s called art for a reason. They’re not lies, Geralt. No matter what anyone says.”

“Who says?”

Jaskier cleared his throat and soldiered on. “Maybe some details are a tad bit distorted for dramatic effect or to protect the innocent, but the rest,” he trailed off. “I write from my heart.”

“And your coin purse.” Geralt laughed. “They made you famous.”

“Do I look famous to you?” Jaskier scoffed. “A few grand parties and meaningless awards for popular tunes farmers sing in taverns. I am worlds away from earning the respect of the masters at the academy.”

“You’ve earned my respect. For what it’s worth.”

Jaskier blinked and looked into the witcher’s eyes. He blushed and glanced away. “Thank-you, Geralt.”

“That girl at the tavern said you came in third at a festival over the winter.”

“I came in second.” Jaskier corrected with a grin. His smile faded quickly. “Even so. The festival was an unmitigated disaster. In hindsight, I wish I’d never gone.”

“What kind of trouble did you get into this time?”

That was fair, because yes, Jaskier did have a knack for getting into hot water. “Not my fault. Mostly.”

“What happened?”

“It might be easier to tell you what didn’t. Everything went swimmingly until after I won my prize. You asked why I appeared impoverished in Rinde. As you are aware, my former patron, Countess de Stael, dropped me. She withdrew my participation fee for the festival; hence the expense fell to my lacklustre coin purse. Fortunately, the collectors agreed I’d be less likely to make good on the debt with broken fingers. And so, here I am, fingers intact, but little else.”

“And Valdo Marx?”

Jaskier snorted. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you strike that name from your memory and promise never to utter it in my presence again?”

“He was there?”

“In all his glory.” Jaskier shivered and tried not to think about the rest of it. “Geralt, I’ll do better. And I’ll explain everything in time.”

“You don’t have to.” Geralt stretched out on his bedroll beside Jaskier, and Jaskier rolled onto his side to speak to him directly.

“But I will. You deserve the truth. You’re going out of your way to accompany me to Cidaris. Please, trust that I will tell you the entire story when I’m able?” Jaskier closed his eyes. He could fix this. He had a plan. There was hope they’d come out of this unscathed.

But all good storytellers know what happens to best-laid plans.


	5. Truth Potion

In the next town, Geralt found a saddler able to repair Roach’s gear. Jaskier introduced himself to the tavern owner and offered his services.

“Jaskier the bard?” the woman snarled. “Not in my establishment, you aren’t.”

“Have you not heard of me? I came in second at the festival—”

“Aye, I’ve heard of ye. Get out before I call the constabulary.”

Jaskier backed off and busked in the square instead, focusing on only popular and common folk songs. A few children gathered and danced in circles. He kept the tunes spirited and improvised some old nursery rhymes to replace his jigs’ usual lyrics.

One kid brought him an ale, much appreciated. A fruit vendor tossed a few tomatoes into his open lute case, unblemished and ripe. A passerby threw coppers at him. Did they think he was some stable boy with a reed flute? Jaskier bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to rock the boat.

They set out again in the late afternoon and camped beside the road.

The North Pontar Road continued west toward Oxenfurt. Jaskier knew the route, had travelled it countless times. The threat of bandits outweighed monsters in these areas. Geralt reduced his armour to just wearing his vest and woollen cloak as a lazy effort to blend in.

The road became busier the further west they travelled. Jaskier’s attention hopped from one traveller to the next, sharing songs and riddles and asking after local gossip and stories. The puzzles made him popular among the old men. Especially the ones who believed they’d heard them all.

In the evening, Jaskier played quiet tunes by the fire, coaxing fellow travellers to join in and share their food and ale. Later in the night, when the music ended and they were alone once more, Jaskier leaned tiredly against Geralt’s shoulder and yawned.

“We’ll reach White Bridge tomorrow.”

“The owner of The Cat’N’Bucket tavern is a friend of mine. I’ve always had good luck making coin there.” Jaskier passed Geralt a small basket of blueberries; a prize won in an impromptu riddle challenge late that afternoon.

Geralt ate the small berries one by one.

“Geralt,” Jaskier blurted out. “How can you stand eating them so slow?”

“Have you ever heard of savouring the moment?”

Jaskier much preferred the method of shoving as many as he could fit in his mouth at once. “I live in the moment; I need not savour it.”

“Open your mouth,” Geralt held one plump blueberry between his finger and thumb.

Jaskier swallowed thickly and did as he was told. He closed his eyes. Geralt’s fingertips brushed lightly against his lips as he popped the berry into Jaskier’s mouth.

“Now be still,” Geralt murmured. “Don’t chew it yet. Just hold it on your tongue. Do you feel it?” 

Jaskier wasn’t precisely sure what Geralt thought he should be feeling, but without a doubt, the burgeoning pressure in his pants was not what the witcher had intended. He shifted and crossed his legs. “Mm-hm.” 

“You don’t need to act like it’s killing you.” Geralt laughed. “Go ahead, you glutton, eat it your way.”

Jaskier swallowed the berry whole and nearly choked.

Geralt didn’t feed him any more blueberries after that.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started. He cleared his throat and took a quick breath. “Is there a way to know if someone who’s died is at peace?”

“Is there a grave?” Geralt asked.

“No. They never recovered the body.”

“Then how do you know they’re dead?”

“She left a note.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Suicide?”

Jaskier nodded. “She left her notebook on the bridge. A friend of hers found it the next morning.”

“White Bridge?” Geralt asked, putting it together. “Is this the friend of yours who died this winter?”

“Yes.”

“White Bridge is called Jumper’s Haunt for a reason. The shores are crawling with wraiths at night. There’s no way to know if your friend is one of them.”

“I’d like to leave some flowers.”

“The bridge is safe during the day. Never go close to the river.”

Jaskier blinked against the smoke getting in his eyes from their campfire and accepted the bottle of spirits Geralt passed him. He made a face at the bitter taste. “Where did you get this?”

“A hedge witch, one of the farmer’s wives, in trade for some bone dust.”

Jaskier eyed the bottle. Only Geralt would think trading ale with a hedge witch was a good idea. “What’s in it?”

“Wouldn’t say. Probably won’t turn you blind.”

Jaskier coughed. “Seriously?”

Geralt laughed. “No. It’s mead. With spices.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Jaskier laughed and took another sip. Now that Geralt mentioned it, it tasted like spiced mead. The alcohol warmed his gut and his fingers tingled. “You sure it’s just mead?”

“Maybe a few extra ingredients. I figured I’d let you try before risking it. How are you feeling so far?”

Jaskier laughed again and pointed the mouth of the bottle at Geralt. “You — You’re messing with me. Have some, or I refuse to drink any more.”

Geralt grabbed the bottle and took a long swallow. “The friend of yours who jumped off the bridge. Does she have something to do with Valdo Marx?” he asked and passed the bottle back to Jaskier.

“Are you—is this a truth potion?”

“No such thing.”

“But let’s, for the sake of dramatic effect, say there is, and this is one. We’re both under its effects by now. We’ll play a game. Truth for truth.”

“Deal.” Geralt accepted the bottle from him and took another sip.

“Yes. Sera Vallens was Valdo’s latest conquest, I mean, protégé. She graduated from the Academy last year and continued serving him like the good little sycophant she was. I thought of her as a friend once. But no, friends don’t—Well. I answered your question. My turn.” Jaskier plastered on a smile. “What do you think of my singing?”

“You’re the greatest bard I know.”

“Ha, I always knew you appreciated fine talent—Wait! How many bards do you know?”

“My turn to ask you.” Geralt passed the bottle to Jaskier, and Jaskier glared at him as he drank. He wasn’t so sure this game was such a clever idea anymore. Geralt leaned forward. “Why haven’t you taken a position in someone’s court yet?”

“Maybe I’ve never been offered one?” 

But Geralt pointed at him. “Truth potion, remember. You can’t lie.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m an incorrigible layabout and cad. And I prefer to be where the action is, and so here I am.”

“Here you are,” Geralt agreed. Jaskier passed the bottle back to him, and he took his obligatory sip. “What’s your next question?”

“How many bards do you know?”

“One.”

“Oh! Sweet Melitele. That is not fair.”

Geralt upended the bottle and drank the rest of the mead. “Goodnight, bard.”

~~~

“It doesn’t look so bad from here, does it?” Jaskier mused upon the first sight of White Bridge’s towers.

Geralt didn’t dignify that with a response. Jaskier romanticized everything. His songs described how he thought things ought to look rather than how they did. White Wolf. Friend to Humanity. Utter nonsense.

“You really can see why people call it White Bridge. Amazing, isn’t it, how the light hits it just so? The sun shines on the river like jewels.”

When they got closer, the white faded to grey, and the jewels lost their lustre and proved to be rubbish, human waste, and dead fish.

“We’ll go to Cat’N’Bucket first, then to the bridge,” Jaskier’s voice grew more subdued the closer they got. Despite what the bard had said about the dead woman not being a friend, his voice held emotion whenever he spoke of her. Geralt didn’t push for answers.

Multiple wreaths hung on the rails of the bridge. Jaskier did not look at any of them.

The Cat’N’Bucket wasn’t what Geralt expected. He assumed friends of the bard would be like the insufferable snobs he often saw loitering in Oxenfurt. The tavern was by the docks, close to where the freight barges anchored. No academics here. Gulls swooped and congregated around garbage heaps and men grunted as they unloaded crates and bags from barges.

The stable hand, an older man with very few teeth and a crooked leg, recognized Jaskier and wrapped him in a massive hug on sight.

“Been too long,” the man patted Jaskier on the back. “You’ve filled out lad. You were naught but a scrawny arse last I saw you.”

Jaskier laughed and kissed the man on the cheek. “And you’re still as flattering as ever, George. Is Rosie in?”

“Ayuh, she workin’ on her books in the morning.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier hugged the man once more. “Geralt, would you like to come with me, or see to Roach?”

Considering the trouble Jaskier courted, Geralt was loath to leave the bard alone for long. He wanted to know what kind of reception to expect. Better to meet this woman and get a handle on her disposition before getting comfortable. “I’m with you.”

Jaskier grinned, but the tension seeped back into his shoulders as he led Geralt around back and knocked on the door. A peephole slid open, followed by the scratch of chains and latches. The hinges creaked.

“Well, don’t stand gaping, get in.” The woman stepped aside. She looked about the same age as George. Her long black hair glistened down her back and she regarded them with clear piercing brown eyes. Frown lines etched furrows around her eyes and mouth. “Found some trouble you couldn’t weasel your way out of?” She gripped Jaskier’s chin and tilted his head one way, then the other. “You look like something the cat pissed on.”

“Thanks.” Jaskier backed away from her grasp, and with a flourish, waved his hand at Geralt. “May I present to you, my friend, Geralt of Rivia.”

“I know who this is. The Butcher.” Her eyes narrowed. “You choose unusual company, boy.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw. Geralt chose not to react.

The woman grabbed a flask from her shelf, popped the top off, and took a long drink. “What are you doing back here?”

“I need work.” Jaskier’s tone sounded too brittle and insecure for Geralt’s liking.

“And what makes you think you’ll find that here?”

“Please.” 

“I’ll give you one night, room and breakfast. Go play your fiddle—”

“Lute,” Jaskier interjected.

“Peddle your voice at the market. I’ve heard what’s been going on with you, and I want nothing of it.”

“It’s not true.”

“Oh? It’s not true you turned tail and ran when Marx started spreading his rumours? What did you do? You wallowed in self-pity and drank yourself near to death when you should have been making plans to fix your mistakes.”

Jaskier stared over her shoulder. He clenched his fist at his side so tight his knuckles turned white. “You said we could have a room?”

Rosie grabbed a key off the wall. “203. Breakfast at dawn, and then you’re out.”

Jaskier took the key and looked at Geralt. “Follow me,” he said and led the way through her office and out into a hall and up some stairs. He unlocked the door and let it swing open.

“Home sweet home,” Jaskier welcomed Geralt. The room was barely big enough for the narrow bed along the wall. “I’ll take the floor. And before you argue, you’d be doing me a favour. The mattress is worse than sleeping on rocks.”

“We don’t have to stay here.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Eh, it went better than I thought it would. At least we have a room for the night. I’ll head down to the fish market and find a place to make some coin. You think it’s not too late if we head to the bridge just before supper?”

“So long as it’s before sunset.”

“Make yourself comfortable down in the tavern.”

“I’m not imposing where I’m not welcome.”

“You mean Rosie? She’s fine. If she disapproved of you, she’d have told you outright.” Jaskier dug a clean shirt out of his travel bag, changed out of his road clothes, and slung his lute over his shoulder. “Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do,” Jaskier teased. “If Freda tries to coax you into her skirt, let her. Trust me; you won’t regret it. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

And with that, Jaskier was out the door. Geralt sat on the bed—more of a lumpy bench—and considered his options. Take a nap or go downstairs. Jaskier seemed to know these people. If he ever wanted to figure out what was going on, he wouldn’t find the answers sleeping.


	6. Cat’N’Bucket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Discussion of suicide.

“You’re Dandelion’s witcher, ain’tcha?” The girl at the bar leaned forward on her elbows and eyed Geralt. “Thought you’d be taller.”

“I thought you’d be older.” Geralt countered. “You’re young to be working in a tavern.”

The girl laughed. “Older than I look. I turn fifteen next fall. Anyway, I don’t _work_ here. I _live_ here. My papa runs the stable. You can call me Amber. Where’d Dandelion go?”

“Dandelion?”

“Jaskier’s nickname. You’ve never heard it?” She grinned and lowered her voice to a whisper. “When I was younger, I’d weave flowers into Jaskier’s hair. We’ve not got much in the way of blooms here, but there are plenty of dandelions. Want to know a secret?”

“How do you know you can trust me?”

She grinned. “Because Dandelion brought you here. He doesn’t bring just anyone home to meet us. His other family don’t like him much, so we got to keep him. He told me he likes it better here, anyway. Just think! Here, better than a fancy estate? He’s thick in the head!”

A woman, her blond hair tied in a loose bun, flicked Amber’s ear, and the girl squealed.

“Don’t be telling stories that aren’t yours,” the woman admonished Amber.

“I wasn’t. Everyone knows Dandelion isn’t from here.”

“We don’t know that he doesn’t.”

“Course he does. He’s the witcher Dandelion swoons about.”

“Go help your papa in the stable. Shoo.” The woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, that girl gets on my last nerve. Did she get you a drink?”

“Not yet.”

The blond woman thumped a mug on the counter. “Rosie told me to take care of you. And no, not like that.”

“Wasn’t thinking it. Was under the impression this was a tavern, not a brothel.”

“It’s whatever we want it to be, so long as Rosie gets a cut of the action.” She harrumphed. “So, the bard’s in trouble again?” She poured herself a mug and came around the counter to sit beside him. “Heard that Rosie told him to go sing at the fish market. Good for her. About time she made it clear he can’t come running back to us every time he steps in a mess.”

“You don’t like bards?”

She laughed. “Oh, honey, I like bards fine.”

“I got the impression he’s worked here before?” Geralt asked.

“Singing isn’t Jaskier’s only talent. Does that bother you, Witcher?”

“Should it?” Geralt asked.

“Hm. Jaskier was ours before that Countess got her claws into him.” She poked at a scar on Geralt’s arms. “Are you anything like those songs he sings about you?”

“No.”

“Should have known. Jaskier sees rainbows in sewers. When he first ventured out on his own, I thought, well, that’s the end of that, you know? And then when he took up monster hunting—”

“He doesn’t hunt monsters.”

“Took up following a monster hunter. We all thought, ‘Now he’s done for, for sure.’”

“Not for lack of trying.”

She laughed. “Don’t I know it. I’m Freda.”

“Hm.”

“And you’re Geralt of Rivia,” she concluded. “We don’t get a lot of witchers around here.”

“There aren’t many of us left.”

She flicked her eyes at the stairs.

Geralt stared down at his ale and ignored the invitation. No matter how much Jaskier endorsed the woman’s talents, it felt more like a test than a sincere offer. “What do you know about Jaskier’s involvement with Valdo Marx?”

Freda ignored the rejection. “I never saw the appeal. He’s got the looks and the voice; there’s no denying it. But truth be told, Jaskier never came back to visit during those years. I assumed he was embarrassed by us; now I’m not so sure. What’re your plans for the day?”

“Was thinking to head down to the market.”

“Have another ale, and I’ll join you.” She refilled his mug and ran up the stairs. Geralt was halfway through when she came running back down the steps.

She wore a peasant dress, hair loose at her shoulders, face scrubbed of makeup. “Pure as a milkmaid, aren’t I? Wouldn’t want to sully your chaste reputation, Witcher.”

They walked together, and Freda placed her hand on Geralt’s arm like a proper lady. “I know which corners your bard likes to peddle his voice.” She led the way to the other end of the market to the food stands.

And sure enough, that’s where they found Jaskier. He sang popular tunes, classics that Geralt remembered being favourites back when he’d first started on his Path. The crowd didn’t complain, and from where Geralt stopped with Freda, it looked like the tips were piling up.

Better yet, Jaskier seemed happy and in his element. He sang to bystanders. Flirting with lyrics, altering words, exchanging blue eyes for brown, inserting a hair colour, personalizing his songs to whoever he sang.

The next song focused on humour, full of puns and wordplay.

“I’ve missed this,” Freda admitted. She leaned against Geralt’s side. “I used to resent that he left us behind, but it’s hard to hold a grudge when it’s obvious how much he loves what he does.”

Freda ended up finding them a table to sit at while listening. She bought some ale and cakes to share. And they stayed until Jaskier collected his coins and put his lute back in his case.

Jaskier joined them at the table, dragged over a chair, and stole Geralt’s mug of ale. Geralt didn’t protest. The after-performance ale theft was practically a tradition between them.

“I thought you’d have found something better to do by now?” Jaskier winked at Geralt.

“Don’t you go thinking he didn’t try.” Freda slapped Jaskier’s arm. “But no, as if I’d miss a chance to witness our very own legend entertaining the masses.”

Jaskier blushed at the compliment. “I’m done here. I’ll prostrate myself before Rosie again before the evening crowd comes in. Maybe she’ll let me take the stage.”

“Last time you did that, your love-lorn ballads drove all our customers back to their wives. Not good for business.”

“I’ll behave, promise,” Jaskier laughed. “I only sang the ballads that other time to get under her skin.”

Jaskier used a few coppers he earned to buy a bundle of flowers. He kept them tucked under his arm, and though Freda teased him about it, he refused to explain.

“Geralt, will you come with me to the bridge?”

“If you’re ready.”

They stopped just long enough at the Cat’N’Bucket for Jaskier to drop off his lute in their room and then headed back out toward the bridge.

This time, Jaskier studied each memorial laid out. They passed roughly drawn portraits. Flowers intricately weaved around the railing—no name attached. A couple had notes. Jaskier crouched down and uncurled the weather-worn paper to make out the writing.

“ _The sun has set, I’ll cry and miss you, then let you go_.”

He stopped at another wreath. Jaskier’s hand trembled as he smoothed out the parchment tucked behind a flower. “ _Death is a new beginning. The next road I take will be my own_ ,” his voice broke as he finished. “Fuck. Oh fuck,” he mouthed and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

Geralt stared out into the distance to allow Jaskier some privacy. He looked back as the bard approached the ledge and leaned over to look down. Geralt grabbed the back of his doublet.

“Funny how the mist hides the river. One could imagine it’s an infinite drop into the abyss.” Jaskier stepped back. “You think someone could survive a fall like that?”

“If they did, the wraiths would ensure it wouldn’t be for long.”

“Can we go down?”

“No. Whatever you think you’ll find, you won’t. The body is gone. Drowners and other creatures feed off the corpses. It doesn’t take long.”

Jaskier tucked the flowers into the wreath and unfolded his own brief note to add to the others.

“Mind if I read it?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier passed over the note and leaned against the rail.

_“Your voice I remember calling,  
_ _I would not hear the screams.  
_ _Though you did betray me,  
_ _You still haunt me in my dreams.  
_ _Rest peacefully in your slumber,  
_ _Release the heartbreak and pain._  
_Hold close the love we shared,  
_ _And our friendship will remain.”_

Geralt cleared his throat and handed it back. Jaskier slipped it in with the flowers. “Ready to go back?”

Jaskier tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Do you think it will work?”

He’d thought the wording sounded familiar. A soul-blessing, meant to appease restless spirits and help them find peace. “I thought you didn’t believe in sacred magic.”

“I don’t.”

Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “It will work.” He knew from experience notes like this had no effect on dispelling wraiths. But if it helped set Jaskier at ease, it was worth it.

~~~

What right did a bard have to argue with a witcher on matters of the arcane?

Jaskier had heard that tone in Geralt's voice too many times to be fooled. They were both liars in their own way. Jaskier sang songs of hope and triumph to ease weary minds in a dreary world. Geralt assured the loved ones of the victims he couldn't save that the deceased died bravely and painlessly.

Jaskier had always wondered if it made a difference. And now, standing on the bridge where Sera had flung herself to her doom, he admitted it did.

He squared his shoulders and looked away from the edge. The deed was done. He should have offered comforting words while Sera had been alive.

Rosie had been correct. He'd acted like a coward by drinking himself stupid to avoid facing reality. Marx had surged back into Jaskier's life with vicious threats, and Jaskier had fallen to the troubadour's intimidation yet again. His former mentor’s influence was already creeping in, undoing all the work he'd done in the past decade.

Though he didn't know how it would play out yet, the destination was set. They were going to Cidaris, and Jaskier would be damned if he presented himself as anything less than what he built himself up to be. "I need a new outfit."

"We need more funds."

"I'll speak to Rosie again. If she lets me perform at the Cat’N’Bucket, I’ll be able to make what I need."

"You think she'll change her mind?"

Jaskier waved a hand. "Rosie is all thorns but no sting. I have a plan now. She'll respect that."

"Are you going to tell me this plan?"

"As soon as I figure it out," Jaskier promised.

Geralt let slip a small smile. "I'll check the notice board for contracts. The faster we get what you need, the better."

"I might not be able to pay you back," Jaskier warned.

"I'd never ask it."

It wasn't a declaration of undying love, but Jaskier relished the warmth spreading through him. Marx’s vile rumours affected Geralt as much as it did him, and his resolve to solve the problem strengthened.

"Why don't you have a drink with Freda, I'll—" Jaskier motioned toward the table at the front right of the stage, "—talk to Rosie."

Rosie looked just as annoyed to see him now as she had earlier.

"I need money." Jaskier sat beside her.

"How is that my problem?"

"It's not." Jaskier tapped his fingers on the table.

"Do you always just lay down like a beaten dog?" Her grey eyes bored into his.

"You get mad when I ask for help. You get mad when I don't. I don't know how to please you."

"You're not supposed to try."

"Are you going to help me or not?" Jaskier leaned back and let out a tired breath.

"Marx has you by the balls. Tell me how I'm supposed to help you with that?"

"Why am I surprised you know more about my business than I do?" Jaskier asked. "You should join Dijkstra. Together, the two of you could rule the North."

"Who says I need his help?" Rosie grinned. "Don't try and distract me. We both know this is your own fault. You always roll over for that Cidarian hack. No wonder he thinks he can do what he wants with you. You never showed him otherwise."

Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's why I'm on my way to confront him. You don't think I have it in me to refuse him, do you?"

"There's more to it than that. You were strong enough to escape once, but will you have it in you to pull it off a second time?" Rosie laughed. "First, the troubadour, now the witcher. You've always been too eager to please others. When are you going to live out your own story rather than be a part of someone else's?"

"I'm a bard. Telling other people's stories is what I do. I don't have to justify my choices to you."

Rosie smiled. "Better."

“Let me perform.” Jaskier clenched his jaw. "I'm low on funds," he started over. "If you don't let me take the stage, I'll stand outside your front door and sing every overly sentimental love song I know. Your customers will run home to weep in their cups before they even walk in your door."

"Good boy." She reached over and patted his cheek. "Take the stage after supper. And keep it bawdy. You can stay until I get tired of feeding you."

Jaskier grabbed her hand and kissed her wrist. "As you wish," he promised and returned to Geralt's side. "Done. I'm playing evenings. And we're good to stay here until Rosie decides to kick us out."

Freda slid a mug toward Jaskier. "Told your witcher I heard about a disturbance down at Lord Davey's windmill. His workers keep dying off."

"Lord Davey's? That's south. Temeria."

Freda leaned forward with her elbows on the bar. "Not far, half-hour riding. At most."

"I'll look into it," Geralt said.

"Not without me, you aren't," Jaskier shoulder bumped him.

"Might have to stay out a night or two. Won't do much good for playing here."

"Good point," Jaskier allowed. "But I'm going with you to check it out and hear the story. I'll walk back."

Freda flicked Jaskier in the ear. "You always dog his heels like this?"

"No!" Jaskier's voice rose several octaves at the denial as he batted her hand away. He cleared his throat and schooled his voice into a more poised tone. "We're a partnership. Tell her."

"We're a partnership," Geralt echoed unconvincingly.

Freda snorted. "Of course."

Geralt continued. "The nature of my work doesn't include schedules. We plan the route according to Jaskier’s engagements. When necessary, I tag along and lend my service to him as a bodyguard."

"Friend," Jaskier corrected.

Geralt swirled the ale in his mug. "Bodyguard and friend. Jaskier is adept at contract acquisition and payment. Oxenfurt benefits from the detailed record of our travels and hunts."

"Next time I need a job recommendation, I'm coming to you, Witcher," Freda teased.

Jaskier blushed.

Geralt hadn't finished yet, "He downplays his skills. It suits us both to allow the illusion that he's the one following me, rather than the other way around."

Freda stared at a distant point across the room before glancing again at Jaskier. "I just assumed—"

"Wrongly," Geralt insisted.

Jaskier coughed past his discomfort. He appreciated the effort Geralt put into the story. Still, really, there was such a thing as laying it on too thick. "Well, it's more of a mutual agreement."

"Of course," Freda answered and filled Jaskier's mug.

"I—uh, I better freshen up." Jaskier took the mug with him up to his room, and Geralt followed, as if the room weren’t already too small for one person, let alone two, to change in. Geralt closed the door behind them and started unbuckling the scabbards from his shoulders.

"Turn around, I'll get those." Jaskier offered. Geralt dropped his arms and turned.

The armour routine had started years back out of necessity after an unexpected run-in with a golem. The thing had literally picked Geralt up by one arm and hurled him across the clearing like a ragdoll. It was after, when Geralt could barely reach around to undo his buckles, that he allowed Jaskier to help him. From there, it became routine.

Geralt rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck muscles.

"You didn't have to do that," Jaskier chided.

"Do what?" Geralt asked. He removed the vest himself, then kicked off his boots and laid down.

"Pretend I'm more than I am," Jaskier spat out, voice hushed.

Geralt stared at him. "I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"Hm."

"Those aren't words." Jaskier sniffed. Oof, not good. At least now he knew they'd be here long enough to get a proper laundry done. He grabbed the last clean shirt from his bag and tugged it on.

"What's the point when you don't listen?" Geralt asked.

"I don't listen?" Jaskier laughed. "I happen to be a very attentive listener. The most attentive listener. I make my living listening to people's stories."

"And then telling them wrong."

"Not wrong." Jaskier threw his old shirt into the corner. "No one wants to hear ballads about mundane country life. They want meaning—tales with purpose. Haven't we had this conversation a thousand times before? Do you never get tired of, of..." he trailed off. "Riling me up. Is that what this is?" The grin on Geralt's lips told him clearly it was. "Fuck off."

"I wasn't pretending. You do all the things I said you do."

Jaskier felt dizzy from all the circling. Geralt, the self-described witcher with no feelings, often said the sweetest things that knocked Jaskier right off balance. Well, Jaskier saw through all those twists and turns, and that alone proved Geralt wrong. Jaskier did listen, perfectly well, thank you.

But not to this. If he took Geralt’s words at face value, Jaskier would lose his heart completely. These were not safe waters for treading; the topic had to be dropped for both their sakes.

"Are you going to come down to watch me perform?"

"Not much else to do."

That felt more normal. So long as Geralt stuck to his usual script of not saying much at all, Jaskier could go back to filling in the blanks with fanciful translations. The equilibrium could only be achieved with rigorous attention to things left unsaid and unacknowledged.

It was far easier to accept nice things he imagined being said, rather than nice things voiced aloud.

~~~

Jaskier went with Geralt to meet Lord Davey at the windmill to discuss the contract's details. He acted as tour guide, pointing out local points of interest along the road.

“I knew the girl who lived there,” he gestured toward a burnt-out shack on an abandoned farmstead. “Anya. She married a fisherman from Kerak. The wedding party was amazing.”

“You grew up here?”

“Hm? I never said that. It was just a couple of years between temple school and the Academy.”

The grain mill had been shut down for over a year. Repairs needed to be made, but such repairs were impossible now that workers considered the site cursed and refused to venture near. One man falling down the stairs and breaking his neck was an unfortunate accident. Three such accidents suggested more. The first fell down the stairs. The second fell from the balcony. The third was mauled by wolves walking home at the end of the day.

"It's not a wraith." Geralt muttered.

"What else could it be? I paid our village pellar good coin, and all the idiot did was dance in circles and blow smoke out his ass. Tell me you have more competent skills."

"I'll investigate your problem, but I don't work for free."

"Name your price."

Jaskier stepped forward. "We must also consider the time it takes to investigate such matters. I do apologize, but there are other more lucrative and faster contracts that we could be pursuing."

Lord Davey looked from Jaskier to Geralt and back again. "And you are?"

Jaskier forced a smile. "I am sure Geralt will be willing to give priority to your predicament. Let us say, twenty-five crowns to examine your problem. Fifty for dispatching the monster."

Lord Davey wrinkled his nose like there was an unpleasant smell. "We have an agreement."

They watched the Lord ride away. Jaskier dug some cakes out of his travel bag as he surveyed the ominous structure behind them. “Not a wraith?”

“Wraiths don’t cause accidents.” He looked back at the path back to White Bridge. “Told you it was a waste of time following me out here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll have to head back soon, though, if I want to make it back before the gates close at sundown.”

Geralt walked with him up to the creek. "Don't do anything stupid."

Jaskier placed his hands over his heart. "I never!" And he walked backward, watching the witcher and the windmill until both were out of sight.


	7. Good Dog, Please Don't Eat My Face

Jaskier arrived back in White Bridge in time for the evening performance.

The motivation to earn the coin to buy a new outfit was enough to justify the long hours. Not any old outfit would do. It needed to be of the best cut and fabric, the newest fashion. He played lute until his fingers ached. Freda brought him hot cider when his voice grew hoarse, but he didn't stop playing until serving hours were finished. The next day he returned to the fish market and caught the afternoon crowd.

Not all his time was spent working. It had been a long time since returning to White Bridge. In the early morning hours, after all the patrons had stumbled home, Jaskier sat around the big centre table with friends reminiscing about old times by the flickering light of tallow candles. Four days passed similarly. Each day Jaskier assumed Geralt would arrive, and each night he went to bed alone.

"I should go check on him."

Freda rolled her eyes. "You should calm down and trust your witcher knows how to ply his trade without your mother-henning."

"I've found him hurt in the past." Jaskier swiped her hand away when she reached over to pat his head.

"It's precious how you dote on each other like old married folk."

Jaskier glared. "Fuck off."

"Oh, that reminds me! A boy delivered a message for you yesterday."

"From Geralt? And you didn't think to tell me sooner?" Jaskier rose half out of his seat, but Freda pushed him back down.

"I’m too busy to be minding your business for you. Don’t get in a snit. It’s nothing bad, that’s why it slipped my mind. Apparently, your witcher thinks he may be after an especially nasty goblin or whatever."

"And he said goblin? You're sure?"

"What are you getting at?" Freda asked.

"Time to go," Jaskier said grimly.

~~~

Jaskier let himself into Rosie's office and quietly closed the door.

"I'm not giving you any money."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not asking."

The seriousness of his tone caught her attention. Rosie looked up from her book of numbers.

"You used to be an apothecary," Jaskier stated.

"What of it?"

“I know you still deal in potions.” Jaskier's heart pounded. "I need you to formulate something for me."

Rosie cocked her head and, for the first time, looked interested. "For what purpose?"

Jaskier squared his shoulders. "Valdo Marx. I have a plan."

"Murder seems extreme revenge for groundless rumours."

"He's guilty of far more than rumours."

Rosie closed the book she'd been working with and motioned to Jaskier to take a seat. "Tell me everything, and then I'll decide whether I will help you or not."

~~~

Clouds hung low in the grey sky. Heat and humidity hung thick and coated everything with a sticky layer of damp. The area south of White Bridge was mostly farmland with no tree cover or shade. Jaskier plodded onward and passed the time by making up rhymes to try and distract from how utterly miserable it felt to be soaked in sweat.

He should have waited for a cooler day. But what if Geralt needed him now? His shins burned from trying to walk faster than his normal pace. The fatigue dragged his steps, he ran out of water, and in a moment of inattention slipped in a pile of horse dung and skinned the heel of his hand on the rough gravel.

But, he made it. There was the windmill in all its creepy glory. Jaskier dropped his pack at the narrow creek running alongside his destination and staggered down to the water and scooped handfuls to splash over his face and hair.

Jaskier sprawled on the rocks by the creek and let his hand trail in the blessedly chilly water. He hadn't thought this through. Geralt’s message hadn’t asked him to come join him. The witcher could be camped anywhere. The trickling stream water lulled Jaskier's senses, and he closed his eyes. Just a quick nap.

Moist air snuffed into his ear, and Jaskier gasped a sudden breath, convinced that his ill-advised outdoor nap was about to end in his face being eaten.

Hadn't one of the windmill monster's victims been mauled by wolves?

Jaskier swung wildly to slap the offending thing away and rolled, forgetting about the rocks and the creek, and splashed into the water. He sat up, sputtering, and blinking into the darkness. Fuck it was dark. How long had he slept? He stumbled to his feet, fell on the rocks, and ended up on his hands and knees, scrambling his way out of the creek bed and hopefully not into the hungry jaws of whatever had been huffing in his ear.

Hopefully, all the flailing about would be enough to chase away whatever horrifying beast had been about to—

Bark.

Wolf? No. Wolves were more into howling, weren't they?

"Hello?" Jaskier called out.

More snuffling noises and a cold, wet nose pushed against his hand. A dog. Oh, thank Melitele. He'd laugh about it later. Just as soon as his heart descended out of his throat and back in his ribcage. The creek water was freezing, but eh, he wanted to be cool earlier in the day. Not this cold.

Jaskier blinked, only a crescent moon hung above to offer light. The dog pushed under his hand again, and he ran his fingers over the soft fuzzy fur of its head and back. It rolled onto its side and started wiggling in the dirt.

"Hey, girl. Are you guarding the windmill? Not doing such a fantastic job of it, huh? More a lover than a fighter?" Jaskier rubbed the dog's belly, and she made soft, grunting noises. Happy grunting noises, he hoped. He didn't know much about dogs. "You're not going to suddenly bite my fingers off, are you? I'd like to keep them." Jaskier rubbed the soft fur again.

Oh balls, it was cold. The heat of the day could return any time. Jaskier stumbled around in the dark until he tripped over his pack. He could camp here. Nothing had killed him yet, so he estimated his chances were good for surviving the rest of the night.

His boots squelched as he trudged a bit further from the road. The dog panted and followed at his heel. "You'll guard me for the night, won't you, girl?"

She panted. She? Fair enough, he wasn’t about to check.

He pulled out his sleeping mat and spread it out. The dog made herself at home. "Will you keep me warm while I sleep?" He tugged out a change of clothes; shirt and trousers, suitable for sleeping in, because nothing sucked worse than jumping up naked in an emergency. He sat to tug off his boots and set them aside, then the rest. "Avert your eyes, sweetheart, I'm not that kind of boy."

He set his wet things aside with his boots and wiggled into dry clothes. The lack of fire ensured a cold night. The spot where the dog lay felt warm, and he nudged his toes under her, receiving only a faint grumbling protest as he did.

The shivering made it difficult to fall asleep. Jaskier regretted not trying to dry his hair before lying down. He wondered about Geralt and thought too late about the men who'd been killed at the windmill. What if there were wraiths? Shit. The dog wouldn't be snoring on his feet if there was death lurking somewhere nearby, would she?

Did wraiths threaten dogs?

Jaskier rolled onto his back and stared up at the crescent moon and stars. What if Geralt was already making his way back to White Bridge. What if—Jaskier yawned—what if he waited until morning to worry about all that? There'd be plenty of time to sort it out then.

The morning dew left Jaskier's blanket damp. He woke alone, his canine companion gone with the night. A mist rose from the grass. The sky to the west loomed ominously dark as distant clouds lit with flashes of lightning.

The wind picked up as the temperature dropped. The storm clouds grew closer. Jaskier looked around for shelter, but the only building in the vicinity was the windmill.

Jaskier rolled up his sleeping mat and folded his blanket. The cold, soggy boots were less than pleasant to tug on. The windmill offered shelter from the storm.

What about the monster killing people?

Jaskier slowed his approach. According to Lord Davey, only his workers had fallen victim. Jaskier didn't work for Davey. Should be safe enough. He paused again when a black dog came bounding in his direction, barking menacingly. His friend from last night looked a lot mangier and scarier in daylight. How hadn't he noticed the size of those teeth?

Dogs often came barrelling out of farmyards ready to defend their property. Property that Jaskier had no intention of trespassing on. With a flick of the wrist, Geralt could turn the beasts as docile as a kitten. Jaskier relied on sticks.

Sticks had all kinds of useful purposes, not the least of which was to throw and hope the dog preferred chasing bark rather than a bard. Once, he'd taken the advice of a wandering druid who suggested carrying small bits of meat in his pocket. That hadn't ended well. Jaskier discovered quickly that it was not wise to keep treats in his pockets. Dogs weren’t the only creatures attracted to the scent.

Running only made hounds give chase. Jaskier stood his ground, trying with all his might to look as imposing and unmovable as a statue. Hopefully, a big scary statue. In theory, this should have shown the dog what a strong and unflinching human Jaskier was, and the dog should stop and turn back. The dog did not slow down. Oh shit. Jaskier tensed and braced for impact.

The blow wasn’t quite as bad as that time he’d been hit by a pig—long story. Jaskier landed on his back, breath knocked out of his lungs.

"Hey girl, I thought we were friends," Jaskier gasped. He coughed and tried to sit up. The dog stood over him, drool dripping from her tongue. Was she anticipating her next meal? Perhaps singing would help.

_"Good doggy, good doggy,  
_ _Bards are not tasty,_  
_Go back home,  
_ _To roam alone.”_

"Oh shit," he whispered, clambering back as the animal stalked forward again. "Please don't bite me."

She stopped and laid down. Jaskier stilled again. She raised her head, rolled over, and wiggled in the dirt.

"Oh, okay. You just wanted me to have a heart attack, is that it?" Jaskier asked as he tried to catch his breath. After getting on his feet, he took a route around rather than beside. As soon as he passed, the dog hopped up and followed. That was fine, so long as she didn't change her mind about being friends.

Weeds grew along the path up to the entrance of the windmill. The sweeps creaked as the tattered sails fluttered in the wind. Paint peeled and cracked along the rails of the upper stage. All lay silent within.

"Anybody home?"

The dog barked. Jaskier jumped.

The bard walked up to the door at the base of the windmill. Though it creaked and groaned under his hands, the entrance was locked. The first drops of rain started falling. There went his hopes of staying dry. Maybe he could hide under the stage for some shelter. Unless— Hm. He walked around the perimeter of the structure. There! Thank Melitele, the property was just starting to see the effects of wear from having been forcibly abandoned. Jaskier set his pack aside and crouched where the wood cladding had weathered. He could pry off one more board and wiggle in through the opening.

The dog followed. Jaskier reached out and pulled his pack in with him into a storage room. Or what had once been; now it stood empty aside from piles of mouse droppings in the corner. An open door led into the interior, not much more than an empty room with several abandoned sacks of grain. Paradise compared to sitting out in the storm.

He found an old candle in a cupboard. The ground shook with rumbling thunder as he dragged the grain sacks and arranged them into something resembling a bench. Jaskier removed his wet boots and peeled off his damp outer garments to hang on nail hooks and unused machinery.

The dog had already curled up in the corner. "This your home? I thank you, clever dog, for your hospitality, I'll try and be a good guest." Jaskier bowed with a flourish, and the dog yipped.

He considered exploring the rest of the windmill, but he was cold and tired. Best not to stir up any angry ghosts or hungry ghouls until the sun came back out. That settled, Jaskier sat on the bag of grain and stretched out his legs.

Nothing to do but wait, he closed his eyes, intending to rest for just a little while.

Jaskier fell to the floor amid sudden chaos of growls, barks, and crashing wood as the front door burst inward with incredible force. He reached out and grabbed his boots, desperately scrambling into a corner under the stairs. He only marginally noticed the footwear was still wet as he tugged them on the wrong feet. No matter. Still better than no boots at all.

The barking cut off suddenly—sorry pup, so sorry, you were a good dog—and heavy footfalls crossed the floorboards. The only exit was now on the opposite side of the terrifying looming invader. Attempting to wiggle out of the way he'd come would take too long.

A snick of steel against scabbard accompanied the sound of footsteps. A sword was drawn over the shoulder from a scabbard on the looming figure's back. Wait! Sword over shoulder--

"Geralt?"

And the weapon went back into its sheath.

"Jaskier. What the fuck are you doing here?" Geralt snapped.

Jaskier crawled out of his hidey-hole and tugged off his boots to place them on the proper feet. "You didn’t hurt the dog, did you?"

Geralt stepped aside to reveal the dog, very much alive but unresponsive.

"Oh good," Jaskier nearly tumbled over as he reached to pat her head. "Poor girl, don't worry, it'll wear off soon." Jaskier stood up and stretched. He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. "You didn't have to bust through the door like a brute," Jaskier implored in the best impression of being huffy he could muster. The rain continued to pour outside, and Geralt had tracked a fair amount of it in with him. "Close the door, Geralt, you're letting the rain in."

Geralt picked up what was left of the wooden door and shoved it back in place. "Explain."

Jaskier turned away from Geralt's piercing glare and focused instead on his clothes. Still wet. He left them hanging. It wasn’t like the witcher had never seen him in his smallclothes before. "Well, this morning, I saw dark clouds on the horizon, and I thought, oh my, it's going to rain. I checked around the building and found a—"

"Why are you here, Jaskier. I don't care how you got in."

Jaskier took a deep breath. "Abandon the contract."

"Why should I do that?"

"I got your message. About goblins. I know what that means."

"You should. You thought up the damn code."

"Right," Jaskier continued. "There’s no monster. You're hunting a human killer, aren't you?"

"Former mill worker. Holds a grudge against Davey for firing him."

"You were hired to kill a monster."

"The contract is to find whatever's killing the mill workers. That's what I'm doing."

"And then what? Bring the man's head back to Lord Davey as a trophy?" Jaskier asked, he leaned against the wall and stared down at his boots. "Lord Davey won't pay you without a monster to show."

Geralt frowned. "Then we tell him it was a wraith. I fulfilled the contract. He doesn't need to know the details."

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut. Geralt had been taken aback the first time Jaskier suggested 'altering' the conclusion of a contract. _You solved their problem; they don't need to know how._

Then, he'd used rhetoric and debate to wear Geralt down. _You aren't an exterminator. You're a witcher, you decide how a contract is solved._

For example, Geralt convinced the Rock Troll in Haverstab to relocate to a new den on the other side of the mountain. They used a skull of a dead troll to bring back to the village as proof of completion.

Another example, the contract in Fremont to kill the werewolf terrorizing the village turned out to be a pack of wargs. Geralt had worked alongside the werewolf and then reported to the alderman that the werewolf had been dealt with.

A muscle twitched in Geralt's jaw. "You want to let this man keep killing?"

"We'll take the information to Lord Davey. You've put the work in. He'll see this isn't an issue for us to solve."

"And no pay."

"There's the investigation fee, remember? He still owes you that. It's enough. Leave the human problems for the humans," Jaskier implored.

"You've never taken issue with my meddling in _human_ affairs before."

"I didn't mean it like that. Geralt, we can't risk this. Not now."

"What's different?"

"Rumours." Jaskier nearly choked on the words. "That I've been spinning tales, preying on the vulnerable. That my songs are no more than fairy tales meant to deceive. Now is not the time to risk getting caught fabricating facts."

"So what? It's true, your songs aren't accurate."

The accusation cut deep. "The spirit of truth is what matters. And my stories and ballads aren't meant to be histories. They're meant to entertain. If people wanted the truth, they could look it up in the Oxenfurt library. It's all there. Unabridged." Jaskier squirmed under the intensity of Geralt's gaze.

"Fine. We take the information to Davey and move on."

They waited for the rain to end. The storm had broken the heatwave, and the air felt fresh and crisp.

Lord Davey lived on an estate halfway between the mill and White Bridge. It was a short walk compared to the day before. The dog went with them. Jaskier tried to send her back to the windmill, and she disappeared for a little while, then suddenly hopped out of the bushes to trail behind them. Soon enough, Jaskier gave up on chasing her away, and she gave up on being subtle and started following at his heels.

"I could cast _axii_ to make the dog turn back." Geralt offered.

Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt's arm. "She was alone there. Let her choose. Anyway, I'm sure she'll get bored of us sooner than later and find a nice farm to make a new home at."

"Funny. I used to assume the same of you."

"Ha-ha. I'll need to name her."

"Why?"

Jaskier sputtered indignantly for dramatic effect. "You named your horse."

"A horse is a necessary tool." Geralt defended.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "I’ll call her Nyx."

Geralt grunted. The dog looked ambivalent. The Davey estate loomed ahead, unimpressive with its low stone wall and crumbling gate.


	8. Everyone Loves Valdo

“Are you expected, sirs?” The old man leaned on a crooked walking stick and rubbed at his weathered bald head. He scratched his scalp and flakes of skin fluttered around his shoulders.

“We are,” Jaskier answered and elbowed Geralt as he was about to interrupt. “We have news for Lord Davey.”

The old man breathed in and let out a ragged sigh. “So be it. Come, follow me. I’ll see you to the house.” He led the way, hiking up his right hip as he limped slowly along. They bypassed the front and took a weedy path around to the side. The old man stopped at an iron boot scraper and spent a considerable amount of time getting the mud off his shoes.

He gave them both a severe stare and didn’t budge until Geralt followed suit. Jaskier stood aside. “My boots are already clean, good sir,” Jaskier assured the old man.

“All labourers wipe.”

Jaskier sputtered with indignation. Of all the! “I’ll have you know I am no mere—”

Geralt pushed his shoulder hard enough to send Jaskier stumbling. “We’re getting paid to provide a service. Do it.”

Jaskier acquiesced, but he wasn’t happy. “And do you expect the dog to scrape her paws?” he mocked.

The old man scowled at the dog until she lowered her head and began growling. Jaskier swiftly scooted to her side. “She’ll stay where she’s told. She’s a clever dog, aren’t you, girl?”

She sat and the growl lessened to a grumble. It would have to do.

“May we proceed?” Jaskier asked. Finally, the old man led them inside through a plain door covered in peeling white paint. He brought them down a shadowy hall in the house’s service area, past the kitchen and up a narrow staircase. On the second floor, they entered a well-lit dining room featuring a large oak table and cushioned chairs.

The old man shuffled through to an open door. “Lord Davey, sir, men here say they’re to see you,” he announced.

Davey looked up from across his oversized desk, frowning. “Witcher. Yes. What have you brought me?”

Jaskier shouldered forward and presented Geralt's findings. “Geralt found this. The murderer left a journal in a shack south of the windmill. There’s blood on it. Human blood.”

"A former worker of yours, named Wahler, is hiding in the area." Geralt explained.

Davey let out a snort and didn't bother looking up from the stained papers. "What good is this information to me?"

Jaskier leaned forward. "You hired Geralt to track down what was killing your workers. He fulfilled his end of the contract and solved a mystery you couldn't."

"Information has come to light that dispute claims to the legitimacy of your service. Good day," Davey dismissed them. "Unless you'd rather I summon the guardsmen to charge you with trespassing?"

They both knew the guardsmen would side with Davey. Geralt walked out. Jaskier turned to follow, but Lord Davey called him back. "Jaskier. The bard, am I correct?"

"I am." Jaskier turned.

Davey looked up and met Jaskier's eye. "I am not surprised."

"About what?"

"You are going to find it much more difficult to deceive the populace now that your chicanery has been exposed. Countess de Stael sends her regards."

Jaskier walked out. He ignored the old man trying to herd him back toward the servant’s hall and pushed his way to the main stairway and left through the front door.

Geralt was already down the road walking Roach away, but Nyx had remained at the gate waiting. Jaskier ran to catch up.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Jaskier complained.

"At least you didn't start a riot this time," Geralt glanced his way, a smirk curling his lip.

"I should have." Jaskier snorted a laugh despite himself. His hands still shook from the confrontation. They walked a while longer. "Geralt. He’s heard the rumours."

"About what you said earlier? Your reputation?"

"Yes. The Countess told him. I know she’s displeased with me, but I didn't think she'd encourage gossip. That makes two intimate acquaintances I assumed to be friends now participating in my downfall."

"Who was the other?"

"Sera. She helped pen the song Marx sang in my honour." Jaskier kicked at a rock on the lane as he walked. He began to explain. "Marx threw a private gathering at the festival and invited the most prestigious guests to attend.”

~~~

"You must escort me to the show tonight," the Countess demanded. “I spoke to Valdo this afternoon and he expressed interest in seeing you. You can’t refuse.”

“Marx wants to see me?” Jaskier fought to keep his expression neutral.

He considered refusing. It had been years since Jaskier quit Marx's company, but the old wounds still carried a sting.

_You’re nothing without me. You'll fail. Your poetry will never arouse the fervour of the crowd. You’ll die alone—a waste of talent._

How long had he spent trailing in the shadow of Marx’s glory? Long enough to believe every syllable the famous troubadour said. The words had cut deep, and they echoed through Jaskier's mind in his lowest moments. A part of him still longed for his former mentor’s approval.

Jaskier wasn’t a lowly apprentice anymore. His songs about Geralt were known throughout the Northern Kingdoms. He played at royal courts and the most prestigious festivals.

What if Marx was ready to forgive him for leaving? He imagined shaking his former mentor’s hand. And the Troubadour of Cidaris would say, _I’m proud of you, Jaskier._

“I would love to attend at your side,” Jaskier bowed graciously to his patron and kissed her hand. He wore his finest outfit for the occasion.

The festival staff had transformed the dining tent into a wonder of fairy lights and silk. The chairs were comfortable and well-cushioned. There were only about fifty audience members in attendance, and the atmosphere did, indeed, feel cozy and intimate.

Jaskier gripped the Countess’s hand as Marx strutted onto the stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Marx opened his arms wide to greet the crowd. “I am honoured to be in your presence this evening. You know how I am.” He smiled and laughed along with the audience. “I introduce my protégée Sera Hawthorn.”

The young woman joined the troubadour on stage, standing slightly behind, and bowed. She held a flute to her lips and played a short tune and bowed again.

Valdo Marx’s voice weaved through the crowd, touching hearts and minds. Love songs that brought tears to the eyes of the most hardened soldiers, and rousing ballads that could inspire noblewomen to take up arms.

“His presence is astounding, isn’t it?” the Countess whispered.

Words failed him, and Jaskier only nodded in response. Astounding wasn’t the word he’d use. Mesmerizing, captivating. This was the reason Valdo Marx was loved throughout the land.

“In our presence tonight, I see, we have another former student of mine. Everyone, please acknowledge Jaskier. Stand up, let everyone see you.”

Marx met his eye, and Jaskier stood. The look Marx gave him was not pride or admiration. Contempt. Triumph. Jaskier had no choice but to stand and bow on command. He clenched his fists to keep his hands from trembling. Whatever Marx had planned—

“It has come to my attention,” the troubadour announced, “That there is a grave injustice being perpetrated upon this land. Perhaps, with this next song, I can start the wheels of justice moving. May prodigal sons, misguided and abused, take this opportunity to return home to where they are welcomed.”

Jaskier’s chest contracted. He could barely breathe.

The song began slow. Sera played the flute behind Marx, a sad tune soft enough not to drown out any of Marx’s words.

 _Bad omens rising on the horizon  
_ _Playing his lute, your nightmares enliven  
Silver-tongued tales of fight  
Whisper into your ear Lies and false fears  
The beast, yellow eyes glowing in the dark  
Created, mutated, corrupt sorcery, corrupt heart  
A monster made to fight monsters  
A legacy of blood and tears_

The troubadour's voice enchanted his audience, the resonance and pitch inspiring passion and awe. Jaskier shrank under the accusing glares turned his way. It was no secret to who the yellow-eyed mutant in Valdo's song referred.

Murmurs rose through the crowd.

The Countess leaned close and whispered in Jaskier’s ear. "Leave."

And so, he did. Later that evening, the Countess had all his belongings removed from her residence and revoked her sponsorship from the festival.

Jaskier sought refuge in Snoring Snail Tavern. It was pure luck that Ayana, the owner of the establishment, had a soft spot for downtrodden bards, especially ones eager to please and willing to do just about anything for the privilege of securing shelter. There were no extra rooms to be had, but there was plenty of room in Ayana’s bed.

Sera found him in the tavern, sitting at a table in the far corner, steadily working on getting more drunk than he’d ever been in his life.

"I have a message from Master Valdo,” Sera whispered. Jaskier sloshed the dregs of ale in his cup and pretended not to listen. “He will spread the truth. The peasants you and your witcher swindle will learn of your schemes. Your name will be synonymous with greed and villainy. Return and beg forgiveness. Master Valdo will welcome you back and help you repent of your evil ways."

Jaskier picked at a furrow in the table. "Tell him to go fuck himself."

Sera lingered, her fingers picking at the decorative lace around her neckline. "Jaskier, it’s for your good. The witcher has tricked you. Poisoned your thoughts."

“You believe everything Marx tells you?"

"I must. You don't know what it's like to be under Master Valdo's thumb."

"You think I don't remember?" Jaskier asked. 

Sera averted her gaze. "He told me about how you left him. How you were jealous of his talent."

"Is that what he said?" Jaskier laughed. “Go ahead, be his plaything until he grows tired of you and moves on to someone new.”

“You're bitter.”

"Right, right. Does he still tell you what to write, what to think? You enjoy basking in the reflection of Marx’s fame even if it means you’ll never have a chance to shine on your own."

"How is serving that mutant any different than serving Master Valdo?" She scoffed. "At least I get to attend spectacular feasts and parties. What did you trade your freedom for? Horror and death?”

“Leave Geralt out of this.”

“You’re in no position to moralize to me about freedom.”

“You think not?” Jaskier retorted. “Geralt is my friend, not my master. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand the difference. That was a fine song Marx played today. Did you write it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you ever wish to put your own voice to your work?”

“And what? Live in poverty like you? Be a wandering minstrel until I die of traveller's fever in a rundown inn where no one will remember my name? I've worked all my life for this."

"To be Marx's puppet?"

Sera grabbed Jaskier’s cup and took a long drink of ale. “Come with me. Master Valdo will be upset if I return alone.”

"Your problem, not mine."

~~~

"And that was the last I saw of her," Jaskier finished. "The rumours spread quickly through the festival after that. I was lucky I'd already won my prize. Those who I thought of as friends refused to acknowledge my presence. Some publicly rebuked me. Geralt, we should part ways. You can say you discovered my true nature and refused to have anything to do with it. I don't want to drag you down with me."

"I told you about the book _Monstrum_. People have been saying the same about witchers for as long as we've existed." Geralt rubbed a thumb over the polished studs of his leather jerkin. “I’m not as easily intimidated as your festival friends.”

“I have to confront him.” Jaskier kicked a rock on the road. "I need to go to Novigrad for a proper outfit before we reach Cidaris."

"What are you going to do when you confront Marx?"

The vial of potion Jaskier bought from Rosie was tucked carefully between layers of clothing in his bag. "I plan to escape his influence once and for all."


	9. Don't Trust Dijkstra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why would Dijkstra share this with you?"
> 
> "If the information is correct, does it matter?” Jaskier responded with false confidence.

They followed the southern route of the Pontar until reaching Oxenfurt. Geralt waited for Jaskier to insist on spending the night, or even several, at the Alchemy Tavern, but the bard insisted on passing through.

"It hurts my heart not to partake of the glorious wonders of Oxenfurt, Geralt." Jaskier walked backwards to face his companion, spreading his arms wide, as they passed various stalls selling their wares of books and trinkets. Pedestrians scrambled to avoid Jaskier’s exuberant gestures as he waxed poetic about the virtues of Oxenfurt life.

They slowed as they passed the crowded main square. An older woman in red robes spoke on a raised platform. Her voice carried through the courtyard, a well-practiced talent by the sound of it. Geralt didn't bother to listen beyond the first few words, something about farmers encroaching on the territory of the rare and endangered species of bumbakvetch. He felt pity for the farmers and hoped, for the sake of all listening, none of these well-meaning conservationists ever tried to seek any of those creatures out. 

Jaskier bumped against an older man in a monk’s cloak and sent a pile of parchment papers flying into the air. "Fuck, sorry,” he begged forgiveness of the old man and crouched to start collecting the mess. “Geralt, you go ahead. I’ll catch up."

Geralt laughed at the sight of Jaskier chasing stray papers while trying to avoid the dog jumping to lick his face each time he bent to pick one up. Geralt left them to it and stopped at the gate on the city’s north side to wait.

The dog came running to join him first, turning in multiple circles before lying down with a soft whine. He expected Jaskier to appear right after.

The shadow of the gate tower crept further across the road. “Passing through, sure,” Geralt grumbled as Roach bumped his shoulder. 

He called over a boy loitering beside a peddler. “You, in the green.” The kid looked up, eyes wide, and leapt to his feet. "I've coin for you if you watch my horse and bags."

The youth nodded and settled on the road beside Roach while the dog rolled over, demanding a belly rub. Geralt spared one last scathing look in their direction before heading back to the square where he’d last seen Jaskier. 

The speaker and the crowd had dispersed. There was no sign of the bard anywhere. The cobblestone square was useless for tracking footprints. In place of physical tracks, Geralt inhaled deeply.

Geralt hated the stench of cities: body odour, spoiled meat, ale, piss, horse shit, and the underlying sweet funk of rotting vegetables. He pushed it all to the back of his mind and searched for one scent, chamomile. It was a rare day that Geralt wasn't accosted with Jaskier's favoured oil.

There. Now, where did it go? The scent weaved to the right and down a back lane. He lost it as he passed the waste bin behind the tavern but picked it up again shortly after. The trail ended at a doorway. Geralt tried the handle. Locked. A concentrated blast of _aard_ into the keyhole broke the lock, and the door creaked open to reveal a storage closet holding boxes and jars for shipping. The chamomile smell settled there and wafted up the stairs. A thick oak door closed off the top of the staircase. Hushed voices spoke on the other side. Jaskier’s voice was one of them.

Geralt opened the door to an office lined with bookshelves. "Dijkstra."

Dijkstra sat at a large desk, Jaskier, across from him. Jaskier whirled around, heart-pounding so loud Geralt could hear it, and tripped in his haste to jump to his feet. He held a folded note in his hand, swiftly shoved into his pocket. "Geralt!" All smiles and whirling gestures. "I was just—"

"Leaving," Geralt answered.

"Yes," Jaskier agreed. The bard avoided eye contact with Dijkstra as he exited and sprinted down the stairs, missing a few steps along the way with a startled yelp.

"Witcher." The large man stood and glared with eyes too small for his overgrown head and body. Geralt reminded himself that despite Dijkstra's oafish appearance, this was one of the most calculating minds behind the Northern Realms political intelligence community.

Geralt eyed the papers on Dijkstra’s desk, noting an outdated poster promoting Valdo Marx’s appearance at Rinde’s winter festival. "I warned you what would happen if you ever contacted Jaskier again."

Dijkstra chuckled. "I’ll have you know; your bard is the one who sought me out. It would seem your little boot-licker is keeping secrets from you."

The walls shook as Geralt slammed the door shut and followed Jaskier down the steps. Jaskier waited in the alley, arms crossed at his chest as he leaned against the opposite wall.

Geralt didn't hide the fury in his voice. "Damn it, Jaskier."

Jaskier raised his hands. "Wait. I can explain —”

"You promised."

"I haven’t forgotten. So, that’s it? You're taking his word over mine?" Jaskier asked, shoulders dropping. “His men were following us. I wanted to know why." Jaskier pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it over. “Look, he gave me this.”

It was a list of towns and dates.

"Marx's tour dates this summer," Jaskier explained. "We need not travel to Cidaris. He's going to be in Novigrad one week from now."

"Why would Dijkstra share this with you?"

"If the information is correct, does it matter?” Jaskier responded with false confidence. "Geralt, I know you detest spies—"

"I detest how Dijkstra left you to rot in a dungeon after your cover was blown in Povis."

Jaskier cleared his throat. "Shall we be off?"

The reminder of the incident left Geralt in a sour mood. He didn’t understand how Jaskier could be so cavalier about it. But, judging by Jaskier’s subsequent silence, perhaps he wasn’t as unbothered as he seemed.

Geralt found the teenager still standing guard over Roach and gave him the coin as promised.

A herbalist transporting his goods to the coast recognized Geralt as a witcher and offered to pay for safe escort. His two young apprentices: boys barely old enough to be out of temple school, rode in the back of his open wagon.

Jaskier’s mood improved at the invitation to join the boys riding in the cart to share stories and songs. Geralt rode Roach, a silent deterrent to bandits who might otherwise take an interest. They camped together one night, and by noon the following day, Tower Isle stood grey in the distance.

The groups parted ways at the crossroads, the wagon turning north toward Roggveen and Geralt and Jaskier keeping west toward Novigrad. They waved their goodbyes, and Jaskier shouted, "Good luck to you!"

Jaskier regarded the signpost. "Tretogor Gate. You go ahead. Get us a room at Crippled Kates."

"The brothel?"

"Harborside district. They have rooms to let. Talk to Katja."

"And you?" Geralt asked as he dismounted.

Jaskier grinned as he looked out over Farcorners on the outskirts of Novigrad walls. "I've got a friend I need to visit. See you later tonight!" He set off at a jog with the dog close at his heels.

Geralt held back a groan as he contemplated how much trouble Jaskier could get into in an afternoon. He settled Roach into the Novigrad stables first. The brothel was familiar. Jaskier dragged him there every time they passed through Novigrad. Katja was more than pleased to rent him the room.

"Just one room?" she teased.

"Just one." He repeated. It saved on coin to share space, and nobody's business to guess why.

"Can I count on Jaskier to provide the entertainment this evening?" Katya asked.

"Not tonight. Don’t expect him back before tomorrow." Geralt took the key and headed up the stairs with the bags.

The city stank of dead fish, but at least he knew there would be a washerwoman available to scrub the dirt and sweat out of their clothes. He tossed everything on the bed and started sorting. A vial slipped from the folds of one of Jaskier’s shirts.

Geralt caught the container before it hit the floor. This was new—a professional alchemist vial with black liquid inside. Geralt pulled the cork out of the top and sniffed the contents. Hints of nightshade mixed into a medium of something sweet.

Poison.

Geralt tucked it back into Jaskier's bag.

Fuck.

He stowed their bags under the bed and lay down. _Poison._ First, the secret meeting with Dijkstra, and now this. What else was the bard hiding from him? Multiple scenarios whirled through his mind. Jaskier hadn’t asked for help. If Jaskier didn’t trust him enough to confide the plan to him, did he have a right to demand answers?

The room was dark, and the tavern quiet when Geralt woke to the sound of a dog barking. Jaskier's dog. Geralt recognized the sharp uptick of its bark.

Geralt was up in a heartbeat. Jaskier's voice carried up from the street, swearing. Another fight? Who had Jaskier pissed off this time?

The tavern was quiet, the bar shut at this hour of early morning. Geralt stomped across the empty room and thundered out the front door to find Jaskier with his arm around an elf in the middle of the street, giggling and barely able to stand upright. The dog ran in circles, jumping and yapping at the strange antics.

Not a fight. Just drunk.

And he was wearing a new outfit: a fuchsia and blue brocade doublet with matching trousers. The doublet was unbuttoned, showing off a yellow chemise.

"Geralt!" Jaskier shouted and lunged forward in greeting. The fashionably dressed female elf at his side tried to quiet him and lost her hold. Geralt caught the bard like a badly tossed sack of flour.

Jaskier tripped over his feet again, "My friend, Elihal. Elihal, Geralt. Elihal is my tailor. Geralt is a witcher."

"Shut-up," Geralt growled.

"I don't know why you get so irritable about our friends knowing your profession. It's not a secret." Jaskier grinned and brushed his hands over his new finery. "Do you like my new outfit?"

"You're going to fall in shit and wreck it."

"That wouldn't be good," Jaskier agreed and swung his arm back as though to push his lute up on his shoulder. "Where's my lute?"

Elihal stepped forward, "Do not worry, your lute is safe back at my establishment. Visit me tomorrow, and I will have it waiting for you."

Jaskier smiled at her, head lolling to the side. "Thank you. You take such loving care of me. Geralt does too, don’t you, Geralt?" He tried to bridge the space between himself and the elf, but Geralt gripped him in place. "Elihal has the best wine," Jaskier shouted. "Oh, the wine, I like wine. Geralt likes wine. Have wine with us, Geralt."

A head poked out from the window of a nearby building, yelling, “ _Shut the fuck up_!”

Jaskier noted the request and sang loudly. _"Oh! Wine, wine, sweet and divine. With you, I will drink, and with you, I entwine."_

"You've had enough." Geralt hooked his arm under Jaskier's shoulder again as the bard leaned heavily to the side.

"Hmm. Good though. _Elihal, Elihal. A figure most rare, an elf so majestic that none can compare,_ " Jaskier sang some more.

"Quiet, or they will set the guard on us, and you'll spend tomorrow displayed in the pillory."

The threat worked. Jaskier’s teeth clicked as he shut his mouth. Even the dog quieted.

"I've got him from here, Elihal." Geralt nodded his thanks to the elf. He eyed Jaskier critically, “Fuck it.” He grabbed the bard at the waist and lifted him over his shoulder.

“Oh!” Jaskier breathed out at the sudden manhandling.

Geralt gripped Jaskier tightly behind his legs to keep him in place as he squirmed. The dog came with them.

"Geralt,” Jaskier said from over his shoulder. “Elihal is a master-genius with fabric. I must bring you to her so she can clothe you properly. Do you like my outfit? Oh, I hope I haven't ruined it. Elihal warned me I shouldn't wear it right away, but I couldn't help myself. It's silk. Touch it."

"I'm already touching you," Geralt grumbled. Fucking stairs.

"But you're not touching me the way I deserve." Jaskier twisted and took Geralt's hand and moved it in a petting motion over his thigh.

That was enough of that. Geralt carried Jaskier the rest of the way to their room and dropped him on the bed.

Jaskier sat up and started undressing. The dog turned in a circle and curled up in a ball at the door, tail fanned out behind her.

"I didn't put any holes in it, did I?" Jaskier asked, voice low and serious.

"No, I think it's fine."

"Good. Good. I gave Elihal all the coins I had. Lovely, isn't it?" Jaskier trailed his fingers over the patterns in the fabric. Then he worked his trousers off, leaving him just in his drawers. He folded them with meticulous care, or as much as he could with as little coordination as he had.

Jaskier rolled onto his back and wiggled toward the wall. "There's room for us both."

There was. Geralt joined him. Jaskier lay on his side and used Geralt's arm as a pillow. "You won't get sick on me, will you?" Geralt asked.

Jaskier snorted. "I would never."

He had, and would again, but hopefully not tonight. Soon enough, Jaskier was snoring.

~~~

The morning sun shone through the open window, and the first rays glaring across Jaskier’s face elicited a moan as the bard wiggled and pressed his face against Geralt’s armpit. Geralt extracted his arm from under the bard’s head, ignoring Jaskier’s grunt of protest, and eased off the bed. He pulled closed the curtains, but threadbare as they were, they didn’t do much to block the sun.

Jaskier rolled towards the wall and pulled the blanket over his head. Geralt didn’t disturb him. It was better to let Jaskier sleep off the hangover as much as possible.

The tavern down below was quiet this early in the day. Two women sat at the table closest to the kitchen. Geralt recognized Katja, but the other woman was new. They sat with their heads close, chatting quietly, until they saw Geralt.

The other woman wrinkled her nose. “So, you’re Jaskier’s witcher.”

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. “Jaskier’s witcher? Maybe he’s my bard?”

Katja leaned forward, chin cradled on the heel of her hand, and winked at the woman beside her. “Be nice, Evra. I told you he’s clever.”

Evra did not seem impressed. “I’ve seen a witcher before. Not silver-haired like you. Master Jaskier sings like you’re a hero, but I bet you’re no different from the rest.” She turned to Katja. “Told you about the last place I was at, up north? Something plagued us out in the woods, got to where it wasn’t safe to go outside at all. We all pooled our money together, but when the witcher came by to ask about the job, he refused to do it unless we paid him more. Lost my best friend to the monster not a week later.”

“It’s a dangerous job,” Geralt replied, trying to remember what direction Lambert and Eskel had taken the year before. But even Lambert wouldn’t leave people to die over a dispute over coin.

Evra scowled and stood up. “I knew it was all about money for your kind. “

“Evra, don’t be like that.” Katja reached for Evra’s hand, but she pulled away and strode through the door behind the bar to the kitchen. Katja turned back to Geralt with an apologetic expression. “Never mind her. We don’t serve breakfast here, Witcher, but I could scrounge something up if you’re wanting.”

“My name is Geralt.”

“So what?”

“Should I address you by your professional title?”

Katja laughed. “Just messing with you, _Geralt_. I think I’ve got some left-over bread in the back.”

“Thank-you. But I have some questions.”

She fetched the bread and sat back down. “What is it then?”

“Jaskier’s friend, Elihal. Do you know her?”

“That elf he chums with? Yeah. Got a fancy clothes shop out in Farcorners.”

“Where in Farcorners?”

“Ask down there. Someone’s bound to know.”

That left him no wiser than he’d been before. “If Jaskier wakes before I return, let him know that’s where I went.”

The heat had already begun warming the air, promising a sweltering day ahead. The smell of day-old fish overwhelmed his senses.

Geralt took the Gate of the Hierarch and considered his options. None of the houses here looked like a tailor shop. A middle-aged woman hanging sheets on a line eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m looking for a tailor,” he called over.

“The elf?” she shouted back her question.

That sounded right. How many elven tailers could there be in Farcorners? “Yes.”

She pointed east. “There, with the flowers painted on the walls.”

He saw it. Geralt entered and faced multiple dummies modelling assorted styles of silk clothing. Masks and feathered hats hung displayed on the wall.

“Hello?” A male voice called from the stairs to the left. “Oh, it’s you.”

Geralt frowned. The elf had similar features to the woman he’d seen with Jaskier. “I’m looking for Elihal.”

“Perhaps I can be of service?” The man offered with a grin.

Geralt wasn’t sure how much to divulge. Jaskier and Elihal had seemed close, and he didn’t want to stir any pots. “One of Elihal’s clients from yesterday, Jaskier, left his lute behind. I’ve come to collect it.”

A sly smile responded. “And how is our dear bard this morning, he drank an astonishing amount of wine for a human, not too sick, I hope?”

“I suspect he’ll be sleeping late.”

“Let him know we wish him good health.” The elf lifted the lute case from behind the counter and passed it over.

Geralt slung the strap over his shoulder and returned to Crippled Kate’s.

Jaskier was already awake and sitting at a table, an ale beside him, and his head down on his arms. The dog lay under his chair. It didn’t look like sleeping in had eased the hangover.

“Thought you’d have vowed off alcohol by now.”

Jaskier answered, but his arms muffled the words. He lifted his head and tried again. “Did I do anything unforgivable last night?”

“What happened to being cursed with a perfect memory?”

“Given my track record lately, I thought it prudent to ask.”

Geralt placed the lute on the table. “Nothing worse than some rowdiness in the street.”

Jaskier reached out and placed his hand on Geralt’s. “Thanks for fetching the lute. How’s Elihal?”

“Didn’t see her. A man was there instead. He said they wish you good health.”

Jaskier peeked up over his arm, squinting, and let out a short laugh. “I thought you of all people would have noticed. Never mind. I talked to Katja. She’s willing to let us both the room and board for a few hours of music per evening.” He yawned and sat up enough to take a drink.

“I’ll find a contract in the city today.”

Jaskier rubbed his eyes and stretched. “Elihal gave me some leads for you. There’s a warehouse near the fish market where all manner of horrors are trying to push through the old sewer exit. What’s the name — Master Dugal, he keeps his office on-site, just ask after him at the docks, and someone will point you in the right direction.”

“And your plans?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ll do some busking at Hierarch square and keep my ears open. Everything will work out, Geralt.”

“Have you figured out what to do about Marx?” Geralt asked, thinking about the poison he’d found in Jaskier’s clothing the day before.

“Eh. I need more information before I put anything into action.”

“How can I help?”

Jaskier leaned back. “I’m not entirely sure that you can help me with this, Geralt. Marx is a monster I must slay on my own.”

Geralt frowned.

“Metaphorically,” Jaskier added.

Geralt held back any comments. The poison wrapped up in Jaskier’s shirt wasn’t for nothing. Jaskier had wished the death on Valdo Marx without hesitation. How much did he know about the bard? Jaskier had always been guarded about his past. Geralt suspected, with the evidence before him, that Jaskier was contemplating murder. If his suspicions were correct, then could Geralt allow Jaskier to move forward?

He could and would, and he’d help if asked. But Jaskier wasn’t asking.

“I’ll go find Master Dugal.” Geralt stood, but Jaskier jumped up right after.

“Give me a bit to freshen up. I’ll come with you.”

Geralt didn’t stop. “Don’t bother. You’ve got things to do.”

Master Dugal gave Geralt a tour of the warehouse and the crumbling wall in the basement. He described the horrible deaths his workmen had suffered.

It wasn’t just drowners Geralt would find evidence of down there.


	10. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends and Gwent at the Golden Sturgeon.

Jaskier was busking in the square when he heard Valdo Marx had arrived in Novigrad. Roderic, the sword swallower, heard it from Mino the acrobat, who heard it from Aillsa the dancer. Ansley, a maid at the var Attre townhouse, claimed she saw the famous poet arrive with his entourage that very morning. Jaskier packed his lute and headed back to Crippled Kate’s.

“What are you doing back so early?” Katja asked after Jaskier nearly knocked her off her feet as he ran up to his room.

“Marx arrived.”

Katja released a long-suffering sigh. “You’re a fool.”

Fool he may be, but she agreed to keep an eye on Nyx when he asked. He freshened up and changed into a plain tunic and trousers.

“You’ll still be performing tonight, won’t you?” Katja shouted as she caught him on his way out.

Jaskier paused and bowed. “You can count on me, M’lady!”

“Fuck off with you,” Katja laughed, and Jaskier stumbled out the door.

He headed to the Golden Sturgeon.

The establishment catered to fishermen and sailors, but the principal attraction centred on gambling. Gwent, dice, and all manner of gaming upstairs, and bare-knuckle fighting in the cellar.

Now, all Jaskier had to do was hope his old friend Gregor held to old habits. Gregor, a member of Marx's inner circle, had only one obsession outside serving Marx: Gwent. Jaskier came armed with his deck and a purse full of coppers, for both ale and betting.

The fun of Gwent for Jaskier was in his opponents. He always wondered what drove a person to choose which deck to use; was it an affinity for the faction? Did they believe a set to have better cards than another?

“Where are you from, old-timer?” Jaskier asked the sailor sitting across from him as he picked through his cards.

The weathered man of undetermined age glowered at him, his leathery skin nearly cracking as his face contorted. “Shut your trap and make your move.”

“I’m going to guess, Povis,” Jaskier continued. “You want to know how I can tell?”

“No.”

“Your lovely disposition. Only in Povis have I had the pleasure of meeting others of your glowing disposition. Now, not that there is anything amiss with your countrymen. Quite the opposite, in fact—”

“I’m from Kerack, you fop. Cut the cackle now, or I’ll cut out your tongue, boy.”

Jaskier snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked and didn’t feel the least bit guilty when he cheated and won the game. They played several more times. Jaskier was careful not to win so often that he’d garner suspicion, only enough to break even and remain entertained.

Just as suspected, Gregor entered the tavern later that afternoon. Jaskier watched as Gregor got comfortable. He ordered his imported beer, played several hands of Gwent against locals. Strange how many years passed, and yet, Gregor’s mannerisms and habits hadn’t changed at all.

That life had seemed so far behind him, and now here he was again.

It made Jaskier wonder if Gregor would think he hadn’t changed either. Here he was, still drinking to get drunk, dancing to Marx’s tune, falling into his manipulations, no freer than a marionette on strings.

He didn’t have to play this charade, though, did he? Jaskier could leave now, walk out that door, never see Marx again. The troubadour only controlled him because he let himself be influenced. No more. This time Jaskier had a plan.

Jaskier spilled some ale on his hands, rubbed his eyes until they stung, stumbled, and plopped himself down on the bench next to Gregor.

“Julian!” Gregor exclaimed with delight. “Look at you, oh my, I barely recognize you. You look so fit.” He grasped Jaskier’s upper arm and squeezed, then leaned in to kiss Jaskier’s cheek in greeting. “Hard in all the best places. What a sight for sore eyes, how have you been faring, my friend?”

“Well met, Gregor, but I’ve seen better days.” Jaskier downed his glass and kept his gaze lowered. “I’m ready to meet with Valdo if he’ll still have me.”

“Master Valdo, you mean.”

“Yes,” Jaskier glanced up and met the other man’s gaze. “Master Valdo.” He couldn’t shake the feeling that Gregor could see right through the ruse.

“You surprise me, Julian. When you broke free, I thought you’d left for good, but no matter. Master Valdo will be satisfied, no doubt.”

“You’ll arrange a meeting?”

“We’re here for var Attre’s Birthday celebration. There is much to do.”

“And yet you’re here playing cards.” It took effort for Jaskier not to roll his eyes. “Please, Gregor, word has spread, and my reputation is in tatters.”

“Set your worries to rest.” Gregor placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Master Valdo is busy tomorrow evening, but the evening after, call on him at the var Attre Estate after the birthday celebration, and he will hear your apology.”

Jaskier fixed his eyes on the table, tracing a scratch in the wood with his finger. He hadn’t seen Gregor at the festival. How long since they’d last met? Ten years? There were flecks of grey in Gregor’s hair, and the lines around his eyes had deepened, crisscrossing in an intricate outline to his temples.

“You’ve always been kind to me,” Jaskier said sincerely, no deception necessary. How many times had Jaskier been reduced to tears after having his poems torn apart in one of Marx’s critiques? He could still hear Marx’s voice; _you are nothing but a talentless hack._ Gregor had always been there to offer comfort until Jaskier found the courage to pick up his quill and try again. 

One side of Gregor’s mouth raised in a smile. “You’re easy to be kind to.”

“I’ve missed you,” Jaskier admitted.

Gregor frowned and brushed his fingers against Jaskier’s cheek. “A game of Gwent before you go?”

Jaskier played and let Gregor win. Gregor was the only thing Jaskier didn’t hate about those times long past. Despite everything, he was glad to see his friend again.

So why did his hands shake?

Gregor placed his hand over Jaskier’s, “Don’t be nervous. I am sure Master Valdo will accept you back into the fold. We’ve enjoyed watching your climb to fame these last few years; you have a talent for poetry. Just imagine the reach you will have with Master Valdo’s guidance.”

“Do you still sing?” Jaskier asked.

Gregor laughed, but the sound was bitter. “Those days are past.”

Jaskier remembered Gregor’s rich baritone. Gods, they’d had fun back then with the bawdy jigs and rhymes they’d make up on their downtime. Back then, Gregor had dreamed of earning a court position, but leaving Marx was no simple task. There used to be light in Gregor’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Gregor raised his glass in the air, “Girl! More Faro! And a glass for my friend.”

Jaskier didn’t refuse the offer. He accepted the beer, and now, under Gregor’s watchful eye, he had no choice but to drink it. Cintron Faro. A syrup sweetened beer. And strong. It used to be Jaskier’s favourite. Now the smell turned his stomach.

Fuck. What was he thinking?

“Relax, Julian,” Gregor clapped him on the shoulder and hailed the serving girl for more refills. “You never used to hold back on the drink, way I hear, you still don’t.”

Jaskier tossed back the glass again, and Gregor encouraged him to continue.

Gregor dealt another hand.

“I’ve no coin left to wager you,” Jaskier warned.

“No need, no need. I’m sure we can think of something to compensate.”

Jaskier laughed and rested his hand on the table, palm up, and Gregor laid his on top. Like old times.

“I’ll be glad to have you back with us.” Gregor smiled, and for the first time that evening, the expression reached his eyes.

“You’re handsome when you’re happy,” Jaskier whispered.

Gregor blushed and closed his fingers around Jaskier’s. “Like old times.” When he removed his hand, he left a pinch of powder behind.

Fisstech. Jaskier was tempted. Just once wouldn’t hurt. Fuck. Some old habits were better left in the past. He brushed the powder off his hand. “No, I’ve got to get back.”

“Stay with me. I’ll rent us a room.”

“I’m performing at Crippled Kate's tonight.”

“The whorehouse?” Gregor laughed. “No wonder you’re so eager to rejoin us.”

“I need to get back.” Jaskier placed his hand flat on the table and tried to stand. He shouldn’t have drunk so much Faro on an empty stomach.

Gregor stood with him, grasping his arm to hold him close. “You don’t need to play for whores anymore.”

“They’re my friends. And I gave my word.”

“I’m your friend. We used to have such good times,” Gregor’s breath tickled his ear.

That was the problem. Jaskier and Gregor had been very close friends, but when Gregor had needed to choose between Jaskier and Marx, Jaskier hadn’t stood a chance.

“You used to like this, remember?”

Jaskier remembered.

He _used_ to like it. Jaskier pulled away hard enough to break Gregor’s grasp and fell backward against a table. Angry shouts rose as drinks spilled over a card layout. Men jumped to their feet, hands grabbing.

Gregor vanished into the crowd. Jaskier stood alone. In a whirl of motion, a fist slammed against his ear. Jaskier’s knees gave out on him as an arm wrapped around his throat, and he got pulled back against the man’s chest, hot stale breath huffing against his cheek. Hands grabbed at his belt and snatched his coin purse.

Jaskier grappled at the thick hairy arm cutting off his air supply, earning only a rough shake in response.

“He’s not got enough on him for even a pint.”

The words were barely audible above the ringing in his ear. He couldn’t breathe. Jaskier struggled again at the arm around him, trying to draw breath without success.

“Take it out his hide then,” the other snarled and suddenly let go.

Jaskier collapsed to his knees. He felt the spilled ale soak through his trousers as he coughed and choked. “Can we discuss this like—” Jaskier pleaded, then lost his breath to a punch in the stomach, and he fell on his back.

Fuck, where was Gregor? If it was money these brutes wanted, Gregor had plenty.

They grabbed his arms, hauling him back to his feet.

“Thrash him out back,” a man yelled to the right. “We can bet on how many teeth the dandy’ll have left when Ruck is done with him!”

Jaskier tried again to pull free but to no avail. He was in for it deep this time. He liked his teeth and very much preferred to keep them in his mouth where they belonged. If he could wiggle free just for a moment, he could make a run for it, but the brute at his back had the collar of his doublet in his meaty fist, and Jaskier couldn’t break his hold.

“Hey! That’s my friend!” A shout came from across the crowded room.

A young brown-haired man leaped over a table. “Freddy! I take my eyes off you for a minute, and you get into trouble!” The man wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, grinning like a long-lost friend. Jaskier blinked. Nope. He did not know this person.

“Hello, gentlemen, my name is Phelippe,” the man introduced himself to the angry mob converging around them.

Jaskier blinked, still trying to place his newfound saviour. Was he from Oxenfurt? No, he’d recognize his old school friends, and this wasn’t one.

“Gentlemen,” Phelippe addressed the angry men again. “Please allow me to extend my apologies for my friend, the honourable merchant Master Federline,” He raised his eyebrows at Jaskier. “The poor soul has only just returned from the south, his ship docked this afternoon, a slow journey as the cargo hold is laden with goods from the heart of Nilfgaard itself. If he but had his tongue about him, he’d assure you he will be more than happy to reimburse you for your ale and fund the replacement of your outstanding decks of Gwent. Just as soon as he gets his affairs in order.”

“Yes?” Jaskier nodded. “Yes. My ship.”

“Meet with us tomorrow at noon at the _Sea Mistress_ , and we will settle all debts, with extra for your troubles.” Phelippe held out his hand in an offer to shake on it.

Jaskier yet again dropped to the floor in a boneless puddle as the man holding him let go and shook Phelippe’s hand.

The anger on the men’s faces turned from confusion to calculating. “These here were expensive cards. Rare sets.”

Jaskier had seen the cards. They were as common as —

“So they are, and all will be settled in due course,” Phelippe promised. “For now, I think Master Federline has had enough excitement for one night if you’ll excuse us.”

Phelippe wedged his arm under Jaskier’s and hauled him to his feet. The room went dim and spun as Jaskier attempted to follow.

“I think the Est Est is a better investment this time of year over the Beauclair White, don’t you?” Phelippe asked.

Phelippe led him toward the stairs going up to the rooms. A distracting high-pitched ringing had settled in Jaskier’s ear. Anywhere away from the beating he’d just escaped seemed an improvement.

The arm holding him upright moved away as soon as they were in a bedroom. Jaskier leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. He drew up his knees and bent forward.

A moment later, he felt a cup placed against his hand. “Drink.”

His hands shook as he raised the cup to his mouth, water. Just water. A lock flipped on the door above Jaskier’s shoulder. Oh fuck. What now? “Thank you for the save, but I should go.” Jaskier tried to find his feet.

“And jump back into the frying pan down there?”

Jaskier looked up. “How do I know you’re not the fire?”

Phelippe laughed and crouched. Brown eyes. Brown hair, just long enough to flop in front of his eyes. “No fires here. You looked like you could use a friend. Speaking of which, what happened to yours? I saw you with someone before the ruckus started.”

“Gregor,” Jaskier answered. “He never was fond of fighting.”

Phelippe shook his head. “Devil take him. With friends like those who needs enemies, right? You’re Jaskier the Bard. I’ve seen you sing at The Alchemy in Oxenfurt. I thought I recognized you.”

Jaskier squinted. “Do I know you?”

“No. We’ve never met, Master Jaskier. My name is Phelippe Calagrande, at your service. I didn’t attend the Academy as a student, but I’ve been to many garden lectures. Whoa, don’t drop the cup. Drink some more. It helps. You got quite the knock on the head there, didn’t you? Ears still ringing? That’s it. I guide our city of scholars’ illustrious visitors, and I make it a point to showcase the Academy’s finest. You, my dear bard, are one of the best.”

“I should go.” His ears rang, and the room wavered. He should go, but he didn’t move.

The man spun around and sat on the floor beside him.

“Stay. Best to let those villainous toads down there settle down before making an encore.”

That sounded like a wise choice. “With luck, the assholes were too drunk to recognize us after this.”

“No matter, that’s for tomorrow to worry about,” Phelippe answered. He pressed his fingers against Jaskier’s jaw. “That’ll leave a fine bruise.”

“My hero,” Jaskier teased. Phelippe’s fingers were cool against his skin, and he leaned into the touch.

“I prefer the term rogue, to be honest.”

~~~

“Hey, sleepy, time to go. I’ve only got the room until mid-morning, and we should be out of Novigrad before the brutes discover my ruse.”

Memory returned in a slow roll. Gregor, Gwent. Phelippe.

Jaskier opened his eyes and turned his head to smile at the man lying in bed next to him.

“Easy now, do you remember last night?” Phelippe murmured.

“Course I do.” Jaskier’s grin turned into a grimace as the movement pulled at the swelling in his face.

“I wasn’t certain. You were quite out of sorts last night.”

“You’re Phelippe Calagrande. My close friend from Oxenfurt and we spent the night in reminiscence of days gone by.” Jaskier smiled again, despite the soreness. He wished he had known Phelippe in Oxenfurt.

Phelippe tugged at Jaskier’s wrist. “Make haste. We must get a move on.”

“I can’t leave Novigrad. Aw, fuck.” Jaskier groaned and sat up. “Where are my clothes?”

“Ah, they were somewhat damp from that puddle of ale you fell in. There they are, on the chair, should be dry by now.”

“I was supposed to perform last night.”

“I’m sorry, my friend. With what I’m sure those villains had planned for you, you’d have not made your appearance even if I hadn’t intervened.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and ran his tongue over his teeth. He didn’t wasn’t to contemplate what would have happened if not for Phelippe’s intervention. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Phelippe offered Jaskier a hand up and held out his doublet to assist getting dressed. He even batted Jaskier’s hands away so he could fasten the buttons for him. “Do you have somewhere you belong?”

“Crippled Kate’s.”

“Interesting locale for a talented bard like yourself,” Phelippe stated.

“I’m fortunate to have some friends who don’t turn their back in trying times,” Jaskier explained.

“Unlike your _friend_ from last night.”

“Yes. Again, thank you, should you ever require assistance, I will be overjoyed to offer my services to you in return.”

“An honour,” Phelippe bowed. “Best if we aren’t seen leaving. The balcony is close enough to the next building to hop over and climb down.”

Jaskier glanced out the window. Phelippe wasn’t wrong. “Yes, good idea.” He held out his hand. “I hope we meet again.”

“Count on it,” Phelippe grasped his hand, but they ended up in a firm embrace instead. “Take care, friend.”

The streets were damp and smelled of piss and vomit. Ah, the beauty of Novigrad. Jaskier made his way back to Crippled Kate’s and hoped he’d be able to sneak in without being seen.

No such luck. Nyx was up and barking in greeting before the door closed.

“What happened to you?” Katja grumbled as Jaskier stumbled in. She gave him a piercing glare and grabbed his chin to hold his head up and inspect his swollen ear. “You lose a fight?”

“Not intentionally,” Jaskier answered and stumbled back when she gripped his chin and leaned in close to stare into his eyes.

“Fisstech?”

“No. Just an overindulgence of ale,” Jaskier assured her.

“Good, but you’re still an idiot.” Katja let him go and pushed a long stick of bread at him. “You missed your performance last night.”

“Something came up.”

“It always does with you. I’ve got a right mind to cancel our deal and kick you out now before you disappoint me again.” She let out a harsh sigh and scratched Nyx’s ear as she nosed her hip. “You look like shit. Go sleep it off. I’ll give you one more chance.”

He could do with more sleep. “Is Geralt back?”

“What am I, your butler?” Katja snapped.

Jaskier bit a chunk out of the bread and stumbled his way upstairs. The sick feeling increased tenfold when Jaskier thought about meeting Marx again. The prospect of confronting his former master no longer felt noble or courageous.

He didn’t want to be alone anymore.

The room was empty. Jaskier plopped down on the bed. It didn’t look like anyone had slept here last night. But Geralt would be back soon.

Jaskier lay down. He needed to tell Geralt everything.


	11. Intersection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt returned to the inn with three things on his mind: check on Jaskier, eat, and sleep.

Fucking sewers. The problem in the warehouse turned out to be far more complicated than Geralt had anticipated. There was an ekimmara down there. Some fool looking for ancient elven artefacts had awoken the thing, and now it was expanding its territory.. The only way to solve the warehouse issue would be to kill the ekimmara.

Geralt left the dank tunnel and squinted against the pre-dawn sky. He’d lost track of time while underground and relied too heavily on Cat potion to enhance his vision in the dark.

He had no idea how long he’d been down there. Hopefully, not long enough for Jaskier to do something stupid. That was unfair. But, then again, these last few weeks hadn’t showcased the bard’s critical thinking skills.

Fuck.

He’d tracked the ekimmara to its lair, but it would have been reckless to take it on before a proper rest.

Geralt’s boots squelched as he walked along the gravel street. The drunk and destitute slept huddled in the recesses of stores along the waterfront. A few people stirred as he passed, but no one confronted him, not with how he smelled. He took the side entrance of Crippled Kate’s and mounted the stairs to the second level rooms.

The door to the bedroom he shared with Jaskier was unlocked. Another thing to talk to Jaskier about. He’d been worried the bard would do something stupid in his absence, but there he was, lying in bed sleeping.

“What’s that smell?” Jaskier muttered, rolling over, and even the dog sneezed plaintively.

“Sewers. What happened to your face?” Geralt sat on the edge of the bed and traced his finger along the swollen bruise lining Jaskier’s jaw.

“A tiff over some cards,” Jaskier made a face and brought his arm up over his nose. “Did you find your monster? You smell like you found your monster.”

“Not yet, but I’m getting closer.”

“What is it? Another zeugl?”

“No.”

“Geralt, we need to talk.” Jaskier began sitting up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Let me bathe first. The smell will linger if I don’t get it washed off.”

“Oof, yeah.” Jaskier flopped back down and waved his hand toward the door. “Go. Wake me up after.”

Geralt stripped off his armour and washed as best he could with a rag and a bucket of water. It felt good to dress in clean, dry clothes, and he bundled up the soiled items to take to the washerwoman the next day.

Jaskier had fallen back to sleep. Geralt was reluctant to wake him. He knew Jaskier’s habits in cities like Novigrad, and rest was the least of the bard’s priorities. And so Geralt let him sleep and headed down to the kitchen to scrounge for some food.

Katja drew in a sharp intake of breath as he entered the kitchen. “Oh, Geralt. Not seen much of you lately.”

“Took a contract. Got any leftovers?”

“In the pot, help yourself.”

He did. The stew was cold but didn’t put him off. He scooped a generous ration of the roots and gravy mix into a dish and sat down in the empty tavern to eat his fill.

“Not much for talking, are you?” Katja followed and sat on the bench beside him.

“Sometimes.”

“Must be why Jaskier likes you so much. No competition.” She laughed at her joke.

“You want something?” He returned to the inn with three things on his mind: check on Jaskier, eat, and sleep. He’d finished the first two, and now he wanted to go to bed.

“Your bard’s an idiot.”

Geralt snorted. “What’d he do now?””

“He’s irresponsible and reckless. He agreed to play for my patrons last night and got back just before you did.”

“I’m not his keeper. What do you want me to do?”

“If he’s not going to do his part then you’re going to have to pay room and board.”

“How much do we owe?”

Katja grunted. “I’ll tally it up tomorrow.”

Geralt finished his stew, placed the bowl on the counter, nodded to Katja and headed back up the stairs. All he wanted was to sleep somewhere dry, without rats, and preferably at Jaskier’s side. He’d worry about the coin later.

Jaskier lay sprawled across the bed, on his back, snoring. Geralt considered waking him up but stared at the shadows under his eyes. Geralt nudged Jaskier over and lay down. Jaskier shifted onto his side, and Geralt lifted his arm to make it easier for Jaskier to snuggle up closer to his side. Whatever Jaskier needed to tell him could wait a few more hours.

But Jaskier was gone when Geralt woke up. The light coming in the window angled far to the left, signalling late afternoon. He slept longer than he’d intended. Jaskier must have crawled over him to get out of bed. It was telling that he was able to pull that off without Geralt waking up..

Geralt prepared a rag and water to clean his armour before realizing Jaskier had already done it for him. Geralt checked each piece and found no faults. It was a nice gesture. Geralt only wished he knew how to get it through to Jaskier that these kinds of acts of service were unnecessary. He didn’t need or want a valet. Jaskier had his own shit to take care of. Why was that so hard for the bard to understand?

Jaskier’s voice, singing a raunchy jig, carried up the stairs. The bard was performing, that should make Katja happy.

Geralt watched Jaskier from the back of the tavern before leaving. He could kill the ekimmara and return before Jaskier finished performing for the evening. 

~~~

Jaskier woke with his face pressed against Geralt’s shoulder. He gently wiped the drool from Geralt’s skin and sat up. They needed to talk, but it wasn’t urgent. He wasn’t due to meet with Marx until the following day. If the smell the night before was any indication, the witcher needed the rest. Jaskier carefully crawled over Geralt and out of bed.

Geralt’s armour lay in a disgusting mess in the corner. He wiped it down. Gross, did Geralt roll through the sewers? No matter. Geralt never demanded or asked Jaskier to help him with his armour; Jaskier was glad to help. He couldn't outright tell the witcher how much he cared about him, but he showed it in the little things. Geralt understood. 

Jaskier checked first to ensure there were no unfortunate souls below and dumped the water out the side window. Katja was expecting him to make an appearance that afternoon, and he didn’t intend to disappoint her again.

The afternoon crowd at the brothel was busier than he’d expected, but that shouldn’t have surprised him. These were dock workers and labourers coming around for a drink after a long day of work. 

Katja waved at him to take a break around supper and shoved a plate of stew in his direction. Jaskier wiggled to the side as Katja sat beside him.

“Sal said she saw your witcher sneak out the back while you were playing.”

“Shit, he left already?”

“I’ve heard the rumours going around about you. That you’re not to be trusted.”

“Do you want us to leave?”

“I don’t believe you’re a fraud. Don’t think your witcher is either. I heard from a friend what you were up to last night at the Golden Sturgeon.”

“What was I up to?” Jaskier asked, eyes downcast.

“You met with Valdo’s man. You’re not going back to that peacock are you? I’ve known you long enough to remember what he did to you.”

“I’m not going back.”

“But then why bother meeting with him? No one who knows you would ever believe this stupid gossip.”

Jaskier wished that were true, but he remembered the reactions of his ‘friends’ at the festival. “It’s not just the gossip. Someone I used to be close to died. I think she tried to leave him. No one leaves Marx without consequences.”

She placed her hand on Jaskier’s knee. “You make it sound like you’re seeking justice, but I think you’re after revenge.”

“So, what if I am? It’ll be nothing he doesn’t deserve.”

“And what do you deserve?”

Jaskier met her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“What are you planning to do? Kill him?”

“I have a plan. I’ll do what I must.”

“If you leave Valdo Marx alive, he’ll seek retribution. If you kill him, your life, as it is now, will be over. They’ll blame your witcher, as much as they’ll blame you.”

“Geralt isn’t involved. What I do, I do on my own.”

“No one will believe that.”

“I have to do something.”

“I grew up in the bits. There was this girl I knew, Nina, she played flute at Hierarch square. We were together all the time, except one night. Her mum sent her to the apothecary for some medicine for her sister. On her way home someone grabbed her off the street. When her body was found, her eyes had been burned out of her skull, and her fingers severed from her hand. Her da made it his mission in life to find who murdered her. He quit working the docks, prowled the streets day and night, searching.”

“Was Nina’s killer ever found?”

“No one knows. Her father ventured into the sewers claiming he had a lead but never returned. Even if he did succeed, at what cost? Nina was already gone. Nothing he did brought her back. His quest for revenge only served to condemn the the family he had left. His wife worked her fingers raw taking in extra laundry for wealthy households. Nina’s sister wound up working for Whoreson Jr. Revenge is always lose, lose.”

Katja stood up. “You’ll do what you will, you always do. Don’t bring trouble back here with you. I won’t help you anymore if that’s your choice.”

Jaskier shoved his food around in the bowl and thought about Sera. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut against the familiar burn of unshed tears.

He failed Sera.

He could have helped her.

Was he seeking revenge against Marx as an excuse not to blame himself?

Jaskier finished his dinner and headed up to his room. The glass vial was still there, wrapped snugly in a rolled up shirt tucked into his travel bag. He placed it in the inner pocket he’d asked Elihal to sew into his new doublet.

Katja cornered him before he could leave. “Will you be skipping out on us again tonight?”

He stopped at the door and turned back to face Katja. “I’ll be back.”

“When? I need a bard tonight, not tomorrow morning.”

“I’m only stepping out for a moment. There’s something I need to do.” He rushed out the door and took the lane to the docks. His breaths tightened in his chest.

The water lapped at the pier, and Nyx whined as Jaskier stood at the edge. Dark shapes turned beneath the murky water. Drowners.

Katja had been right. He stood to lose more than he’d gain. No one could help Sera now.

Jaskier didn’t want to be like the man in Katja’s story; to sacrifice those he loved to chase his revenge. He didn’t want to leave Geralt to continue his Path alone. He wanted to write epic ballads and tales. He wanted to chase adventure and see and do amazing things. Jaskier reached down and rubbed the soft fur behind the dog’s ears, he wanted this mangy, beautiful beast, to get all the love she deserved.

He reached for the vial tucked away in his doublet, ready to throw it in the river.

Nyx barked, her snout crinkling into a snarl, as a hand grabbed his arm in an iron grip. He recognised these men, Erik and Ivar, Marx’s bodyguards. 

“What are you doing, Jaskier?”

“Gregor?” Chills ran down Jaskier’s spine. Nyx whined but settled. “Did you follow me?”

“Master Valdo thought it prudent to keep an eye on you.”

“Our appointment isn’t until tomorrow.” Jaskier needed to buy time to assess the situation. The bodyguards stood behind Gregor, blocking Jaskier in with the river behind him. 

“Master Valdo is eager to rekindle your fellowship.”

“As am I, I assure you, but I am hardly ready—”

“No need to fret, Julian. Master Valdo told me to assure you he would see to all your needs.”

Jaskier smiled tightly. “Thank you for the kind consideration. But I would much rather return on my own.”

Gregor gripped Jaskier’s hand. “Master Valdo has instructed us not to accept no as an answer. If you wish to return, as you say you do, come with me now.”

“At least let me bring the dog back—”

The man on the left, Erik, kicked out at Nyx and tried to chase her away, but she deftly evaded the blow and slunk closer to Jaskier’s legs.

Gregor tugged at him. He was still able to get out of this. So long as Jaskier went along with it and played their game, they might lower their defenses enough for him to escape.

Jaskier hoped Nyx would find her way back to Kate’s on her own. _Please let her find her way back._

They walked through town, Gregor at his side and the two men trailing behind. The puddles and mud of the the waterfront district turned to cobblestones as they entered the more affluent areas to the north. The townhouses looked cleaner, and ornate lamps lit the lanes. Baking and spices took over from the scent of fish and human waste.

Jaskier paused before reaching the broad green door marking the residence Marx had taken over for his stay. He petted Nyx again. “Go back to Katja, ok pup, go on,” he whispered, but she panted and sat down.

Would she be able to find her way back to Kate’s now that they’d walked so far? Jaskier scratched behind her ear one more time and then turned and faced Gregor, smile fixed firmly in place. “I’m ready.”

~~~

Geralt retraced his steps back through the sewers to find the trail he’d left the night before. The passageways in the elven ruins were a maze of crumbling stairways and platforms, flooded halls, and giant ominous statues. He had a general idea of what direction the ekimmara fled. At last, he heard the faint sounds of claws scraping stone, and he homed in on that. Vague marks in the stone offered a path to track.

The final confrontation would come soon. Geralt carefully measured his potions. A beast this powerful and fast, he needed to take advantage of any enhancements he could get. A moment to meditate and clear his mind. An extra dose of Cat for his eyes, Thunderbolt for adrenaline, Black Blood just in case. Geralt clenched his fist against the fiery pain burning through him as the potions took effect. He prepared his sword with poisoned oil.

There would come a day when preparations wouldn’t be enough to stop the inevitable. But on that day, if Geralt could say he’d gone to fight with all the tools at his disposal that he had available, it would still be a good day.

And it gave him comfort knowing that even though he fought by himself, he wasn’t alone. He had a travelling companion who knew his name, who knew what he’d gone up against and would remember him when he was gone.

Geralt walked into the final chamber with his silver sword ready. The Cat potion’s effects allowed him to see in the dark but drained all colour from the environment. There were no shadows for a creature to hide. There. On the ceiling. The massive bat-shaped monster he’d been hunting hung upside down on a towering archway.

With a piercing screech, its wings spread wide. Geralt responded with a pirouette, sword swinging through the air, the weapon sliced through the monster’s wing as it swooped. It screeched and rolled, regaining its footing faster than Geralt recovered his fighting stance.

He’d grounded it, at least, but the massive, clawed talons at the wrist of each wing were as sharp as any sword. It struck forward, and Geralt rolled back, just in time to avoid being gutted.

The ekimmara had the upper hand now. In a heartbeat, it loomed over him, its claws pierced through his armour and across his back.

Geralt summoned his strength and directed all of it into a sign of aard, concentrating the push of air against the monster clinging onto him.

The claws raked his skin as he pushed it back into a column of pillars, and they fell together in a great clamour of sound and pulverized rock. Geralt turned his head away. Fine particles of grit clogged the air, and he coughed to clear his lungs.

He braced for another attack, ready for the claws and teeth that were sure to tear at his flesh in his moment of weakness. But nothing came.

The dust started to settle, and Geralt wiped his arm across his face. Had it escaped?

A massive wing lay lifeless beneath the stone. Geralt cautiously moved forward to investigate.

The ekimmara was dead, crushed under columns of stone.

And the pillars had collapsed to bar the only exit out of the chamber.

Fuck. Geralt fell to his knees.

The Cat potion wore off, leaving him in darkness, and his skin itched as the mutagens quickened the healing process, clotting his wounds to prevent excessive blood loss. 

The chamber lay silent as a tomb.


	12. Master Valdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Jaskier really needed, was to escape. The window at the far side of the room was open, Jaskier peeked out. No balcony. A two-story drop to the pavement below. If he jumped — 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Non-consensual situations, Coercion

Gregor opened the door, and Jaskier stepped inside. The front room carried the scent of woodsmoke from the ornate fireplace along the far wall. Highbacked red-cushioned chairs and a palm-plant furnished the sitting area.

“Follow me,” Gregor waved his hand and continued up a flight of stairs to a hallway opening to bedchambers. He led Jaskier into the room on the left. A bowl of water and a cloth, and scented oils sat out on an oak table. Spread out on the gigantic bed, lay an exquisitely made doublet and trousers of blue and gold. “You have time to freshen up. Valdo would like to see you as soon as you’re presentable.”

Jaskier stood frozen, staring at the outfit as Gregor left and closed the door. It took a long time to tear his gaze away. The sight carried Jaskier back in time, back to when he’d been fresh in the academy, eyes full of stars and in love with the rising star of the Troubadour of Cidaris. Back then, these gifts made him feel loved and cared for.

That was back before he understood there was more to love than fanciful stories, heartbreak, and passion. When he thought love was about sacrificing his own interests to fit another’s intent. _Don’t you understand I am doing this because I love you?_

Jaskier had understood nothing, and Marx had gotten away with all of it.

_Follow me, and I will guide you to your destiny...You don’t have enough talent to thrive without my help...You do not understand the world; you need me._

Marx had paraded Jaskier as his new protégé. He took credit for Jaskier’s poetry awards, while deriding him incessantly in private.

_Oxenfurt must have lowered their standards to allow you in their midst._

He stepped around the bed and used the water to wash his hands and face, but he didn’t change his clothing. Elihal was a brilliant tailor; the outfit Jaskier was wearing was as good — if not better—than what Marx had left out for him.

What he really needed, was to escape. The window at the far side of the room was open, Jaskier peeked out. No balcony. A two-story drop to the pavement below. If he jumped — 

The door swung open, and Jaskier jerked away from the window, heart pounding. “I’m ready,” he said, voice steady despite the pounding of his heart.

Gregor sighed, “Master Valdo hand-selected this outfit specifically for you. Must you risk his ire so soon?”

“That’s not my intent.”

Gregor shook his head, “Come along. Let’s see how this plays out, shall we?” He offered Jaskier his arm, and they walked down together.

Gregor guided Jaskier into the dining hall. Jaskier stumbled briefly as he entered, his eyes immediately transfixed on Marx. The intensity of his feelings bore directly into his heart, the same as it always did in the presence of his former mentor’s presence.

Only Gregor’s hand on Jaskier’s elbow kept him from trying to run in the other direction.

Marx stood, a perfect rendition of practiced grace and style, one arm stretched outward, palm up, index finger extended to elongate the plane of his hand. “My dear Julian, how splendid of you to join us.”

And Jaskier felt that it was splendid.

_Power._

Awareness hit him like a brick.

Jaskier tried not to recoil as he felt the tendrils of influence prod at his mind. The magic in the air ran down his spine like ice water.

Fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ The years he’d spent under Marx’s thumb, scraping for the barest hint of affection and approval, how much of it had been manipulation? Jaskier felt ill—he hadn’t been damaged—he’d been used. How could he not have realized it in the past or at the festival last summer?

He wasn’t the inexperienced boy he’d been when Marx had first sunk his talons into him. Marx was no mage, certainly no Yennefer. That meant there had to be a source. The troubadour wore an abundance of flamboyant jewellery. Large rings adorned every finger, various gems decorated his doublet, and a golden oval pendant hung at his throat. If Jaskier could ascertain what it was, he could break Marx’s power.

“Please, allow me to introduce you to the latest addition to our illustrious circle.” Marx gestured to the seat across from him. “I present to you, Felicity Tavers. I plucked the wretched girl out of the Academy this spring, much as I did with you so many years ago. You know how I detest seeing talent stifled by stuffy study halls and questionable peers.”

The young woman blushed and rose from her chair. “Master Pankratz. I am overjoyed to make your acquaintance in person after hearing so much about you.”

“It is my pleasure. You must be gifted, indeed, to fill in the gap Sera’s passing left behind,” Jaskier greeted.

“Who is Sera?” Felicity asked, turning to look at Valdo.

“No one, darling,” Valdo assured the young women.

Jaskier froze as Gregor pressed his hand against his low back, urging him forward. He led Jaskier to the seat beside Felicity. Gregor took the chair opposite him, beside Marx.

An elegant table layout offered varieties of fruits, vegetables, and cold meat.

“I am ecstatic that you have returned to me, Julian.” Valdo poured a glass of wine and passed it across the table.

“Yes, it’s a shame Sera is not here to join us.”

Valdo smiled tightly and raised his glass. “To departed companions and lovers. It is a shame her ability could not live up to her enthusiasm.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as Marx’s voice echoed through his thoughts.

Valdo rose from his seat. “I am certain you are relieved to be back among us.”

Even knowing he was being manipulated, he felt a sense of fulfillment rush over him. Jaskier fought against it — knowing it wasn’t real — and shuddered. “It is a delight to hear your voice again.”

“Harmonics are but a matter of talent and good habits, Julian,” Valdo sipped at his wine, but his eyes were frigid, pierced with warning.

Felicity placed her hand on Jaskier’s knee. “You poor dear, I can't imagine the ordeal you have been through. Master Valdo is so thoughtful to take you in and help you heal.”

“Ordeal?” Jaskier asked.

Valdo smiled over his wineglass. “The misery you suffered at the hands of that witcher. Everybody knows what scoundrels they are. Just look at your poor face, it’s a wonder you find the confidence to go out in public looking as you do.”

Jaskier raised his hand to the bruise on his jaw. “Geralt didn’t do this to me.”

“Poor dear, you’ll be safe here. The Butcher of Blaviken has no power here.” Felicity shivered dramatically. “I’ve had nightmares just thinking of it. How did you escape?” she asked, eyes crinkling in concern.

Jaskier looked across to Marx. “Escape?”

Valdo smiled, all teeth. “Our Julian is fortunate the Butcher has had other concerns since arriving in Novigrad.”

Felicity brought her hand to her mouth in alarm, “You mean the Butcher is here in Novigrad? How is that allowed?”

Valdo shook his head. “If we are lucky, the witcher will find this contract more of a challenge than he’d expected.”

“How do you know about—” Jaskier started asking, but Marx cut him off.

“We will do everything in our power to protect young Julian from the witcher’s clutches. Do not fear, my darling, Felicity.”

Felicity shivered. “Master Valdo, you are the most selfless and courageous man I’ve ever met.”

Jaskier coughed, masking a derisive snort. Marx’s familiarity with Geralt’s contract didn’t bode well. He’d known they were coming to Novigrad. Who else knew?

Dijkstra.

Geralt had been right to suspect the master spy’s intentions. Jaskier had known there’d be ulterior motives attached, but he’d been willing to turn a blind eye so long as he got what he wanted.

Well, here he was. Fuck. This was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it?

A maid served roasted pig. Jaskier forced a smile and chatted as if everything was fine. He hoped his expressions appeared genuine, and his responses made sense because he couldn't recall any of the topics they’d discussed as the plates were cleared away.

The wine tasted exquisite and his cup never ran dry. Jaskier’s fingertips grew numb and tingly. He wanted to quit drinking. He needed his wits about him.

“Have more wine,” Valdo suggested.

Thirst gripped his throat, and Jaskier held his cup aloft for yet another refill. Felicity flirted with Valdo; wordplay and innuendos volleyed between the two in a familiar game. That had been Jaskier in her role, once. He’d believed he’d been in love.

Valdo placed his hand on his protégé’s arm. “It’s been a long day, Felicity, my darling, you must be exhausted.”

Felicity muffled a yawn. “I am. You will come kiss me goodnight, won’t you?” she whispered to Valdo.

Valdo’s gaze roamed her body. “Make yourself presentable for me, darling, and perhaps I will visit you later.”

Felicity stood and curtsied before retreating up the stairs to her bedroom. Marx’s beatific expression vanished as soon as she left the room.

“Julian, with me.” Valdo abruptly stood and exited the dining room to the office at the side.

Gregor followed, but Valdo waved him off.

Jaskier entered the room alone with Marx and scarcely glimpsed at the shelves lining the walls. The click of the door shutting behind him might as well have been a vault locking shut. He forced his gaze to meet Marx’s eyes.

“You thought you could trick me?” Valdo asked flatly. He held one hand behind his back, shoulders square, the other on his hip. Presentation pose, exuding confidence and power over one’s audience.

Jaskier stepped back. “No.”

“I taught you everything you know. How dare you come to me with false intentions? Tell me the truth, Julian. Tell me what you are plotting.”

The room spun, and Jaskier couldn’t catch his breath.

The truth. Jaskier choked on the words he attempted to hold back, but the compulsion overrode all else. “I need to stop you.”

“Stop me? How? An ambush? Set me up to have your witcher drive a blade through my gut?”

“Geralt isn’t a killer.” Jaskier spat back.

“I see you’ve forgotten how to show proper respect to your betters. I’ll help you remember.” Marx smiled slowly. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you, my dear. You never did respond well to physical reprimands, did you?”

“That never stopped you before.”

Marx laughed. “I’ve learned more effective methods since we parted ways. But I need you to understand, I _can_ hurt you. It would be a shame if you shared Sera’s fate.”

“Sera? What did you do to her?”

“Can you believe she threatened to leave? How would that look?” Marx’s lips formed a grim line. “No one walks out on me, Julian, not anymore. But I couldn’t abide having a faithless traitor in my ranks, so I bid her farewell. Now, she’ll never betray me again. No, don’t move.” Marx trailed his fingers along Jaskier’s cheek. “Julian, you care for that mutant, don't you?”

“Yes,” Jaskier answered.

“Witchers are a rare species these days, aren’t they?” Marx continued. “I’ve done my research.” He walked around his desk and picked up a red leather notebook with a worn spine. “I understand the mutation process is a lost art. An acquaintance of mine recently acquired a specimen in Povis in the hopes of renewing research. He will reward me greatly for providing another witcher for his collection.”

Valdo tipped the notebook for Jaskier to see. The words were written in Elder, illustrating a figure strapped to a table and alchemy symbols in notation. “ _The dissemination of Kiyan, Witcher, School of Cat._ ” Jaskier read aloud.

“Your witcher will make a remarkable experimentation subject, won’t he?”

“No.” The threat instilled Jaskier with more terror than any physical blow ever could.

“Don’t fight me, Julian. You’ll meet my friend soon enough. He has questions for you. You’ll willingly give up all the information you have on the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“I’d never.”

“You’ll want to,” Valdo corrected.

Jaskier’s heart raced. He barely breathed. The power of Marx’s words held him frozen, helpless. He could do nothing but listen. “Please. Leave Geralt out of this.”

“Why should I? Are you ready to be mine again, Julian? Come back to me. Denounce the witcher on your own terms, and perhaps I’ll have a change of heart.”

Jaskier wiped at his eyes. He’d do anything to keep Geralt safe, but Marx would never keep his word. He could fight this. Marx wouldn’t poison his mind. Jaskier could fight it and find a way to break Marx’s influence. “You can force me, but I’ll never be yours.”

Marx nodded. “So be it. Julian. Look at me. _Look at me._ That’s better. Listen to my voice, Julian. Listen closely. You trust me. I am the only one you have ever trusted.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, his chest compressed. Pain flared behind his eyes and darkness crept along the edges of his vision. Valdo’s voice was melodic, exquisite and flawless.

“Good boy, Julian. I'm getting through to you. I can see it in your eyes."

“Please, don’t.” Jaskier trembled, the pain in his head increased and he let out a broken sob.

“Don’t resist me, it only hurts when you resist.” Valdo brushed his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, and Jaskier leaned into the touch. “Open yourself up, Julian. I am telling you the truth. The witcher manipulated you.”

The words echoed through Jaskier’s mind. He squeezed his eyes shut. No, that wasn’t right. Geralt was his friend.

“You’re confused,” Marx explained. “The witcher has you in his thrall. Controlling men’s minds is one of their talents. Why else would you defend a killer, the Butcher of Blaviken? Nobody in their right mind will doubt you’ve been ill-used.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Blaviken was self-defence.”

“Ordinary townsfolk against a Witcher? I suppose _he_ told you a different story.” Valdo laughed. “The distinguished mage, Stregobor, recorded the incident in his memoirs. You’ve been deceived.”

Jaskier struggled against the influence pushing on his mind. Oh, no-no-no, he was not going to let Marx turn him against Geralt. But fuck, it was difficult to concentrate against the pulsating ache in his head.

Marx passed him a book. “Read this.”

“The Memoirs of a Mage,” Jaskier read the title out loud.

“The account is factual and collaborated by multiple eyewitness accounts. Sit down. I want you to understand what has been done to you.”

Jaskier read. The events mirrored what Geralt had confided to him, but with a twist of perspective. It described an assassination plot, a witcher drawn into serving a woman intent on causing chaos and destruction.

“That’s not how it happened,” Jaskier whispered.

Marx sat opposite Jaskier, leaned forward and placed his hand on his knee. “Why would Stregobor lie? The witcher has manipulated you. You were so young when you fell under his influence, Julian.”

“Eighteen. In Posada.”

“Vulnerable. Impressionable. The Witcher never cared about you.”

Jaskier trembled, and the pain in his head lessened. In their first meeting, Geralt had punched him. Geralt had set the djinn on him. Geralt had handed him over to the sorceress and left.

“No one loves you,” Marx said. “And you’re tired of being alone. It was a mistake to leave me.”

He was so tired of being alone, of always having to fight for the barest scrap of affection. He’d tried to find it in random trysts with strangers but those encounters only left him feeling hollow. The only time he’d ever felt worthwhile had been back with Valdo.

“The witcher had you under his power for an exceptionally long time. He used you. He lied to you. But you’re home now, safe with me.”

“I’m safe with you,” Jaskier repeated. He’d been young and alone, easy to manipulate. So many years of his life stolen, used by someone he thought cared about him.

“You love me, Julian. I’m the only one you ever loved. Remember?”

“Yes, Valdo.” Tears trailed down Jaskier’s cheeks. Marx only wanted what was best for him, why hadn’t he understood that before?

“Master Valdo,” Valdo amended.

“Master Valdo,” Jaskier repeated.

“That’s better.” Valdo leaned forward and kissed Jaskier’s forehead. “I’m the only one who can keep you safe.” He opened the door and waved Gregor to come inside. “Gregor, Julian is tired and needs rest.”

Gregor already held a handkerchief in his hand and used it to wipe the tears from Jaskier’s eyes. He led Jaskier back up to his room where the gold and rose doublet and trousers still lay spread on the bed. Jaskier stared at the gift, not understanding why he’d been so reluctant to wear it earlier.

Jaskier had missed Master Valdo so much. He loved him. It was impossible to think otherwise.

Gregor stepped quickly folded the outfit for safekeeping. Then he faced Jaskier and placed his hand on his cheek. “Be strong. Julian.”

“It’s all true,” Jaskier whispered as he sat on the bed and drew his legs up.

Gregor closed the door for privacy, then sat at Jaskier’s side. “You’re safe here. I know it hurts, but you’ve gotten through it before, remember? You’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

So many years wasted. He’d met Geralt at a low time in his life; he’d been an easy target. Geralt had used _axii_ on him. Mind control. How often? He could have done it countless times without Jaskier ever knowing. The witcher had used and manipulated him, just as Valdo had said.

Jaskier shivered, and Gregor pulled the blanket up around his shoulders.

“Rest,” Gregor prompted. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Stay with me?”

Gregor lay down. “You never did like sleeping alone.”

“Still don’t,” Jaskier admitted and with Gregor at his side, closed his eyes.

_Jaskier dreamed_

_He dreamed he was walking, following a dark figure, being led ever forward. He was afraid because he was being led into a cave where he could see nothing beyond the reflection of light on a silver sword. The sword swung toward him, singing through the air in a fluid arc._

_Jaskier dreamed. He stood on a stage singing to an empty room. He sang to a man with silver hair. The songs he sang were of love and longing, but his voice made no sound._

_Jaskier dreamed. He stood on a bridge looking down into a dense fog. He screamed for help, but he was alone. He climbed up on the rail. Hold close the love we shared. Our friendship will remain._

_Jaskier dreamed. He sat on a hill looking out over a meadow, wildflowers spread out in all directions around him. A gruff voice spoke beside him, “There’s a legend of a nymph who died of a broken heart, someone poisoned her mind against the man she loved.”_

_The shadow of the man standing behind him blended with his own. “Are you composing your next ballad?”_

_“I prefer mended hearts over broken ones.”_


	13. A Gilded Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, Jaskier would show Valdo he deserved a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes: Coercion and non-consensual situations

Jaskier woke alone to the sound of muffled shouting. Light streamed in the window. He got up and dressed in the new gold and rose outfit Valdo had chosen for him. Jaskier glanced in the mirror. It fit perfectly.

Today, he would show Valdo he deserved a second chance.

The yelling came from below.

Felicity sat, elbows propped on the table and hands over her face. Valdo loomed over her.

“You will never amount to anything if you continue to produce prosaic garbage. Look at this,” Valdo grabbed the paper, “In his eyes, I melt and drown, helpless in my love.” He grimaced as he read the prose out loud. “Oh, Julian, come.”

Jaskier descended the stairs. “Yes, Master Valdo?”

“Tell her why this… this trash isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”

Jaskier regarded the young woman weeping beside him and peered over her shoulder. “Melt or drown. You can’t do both.”

Valdo slowly clapped. “Thank you, finally, a poet with some sense.” Warmth spread through Jaskier at the praise.

“My pet,” Valdo leaned over and kissed Felicity’s neck. “I am harsh on you because I care. Look at Julian. He wasted his younger years composing bawdy tunes that made whores blush. His repertoire still comprises popular tripe only suitable for the peasantry. Do you see how important it is to break bad habits before they become ingrained? Imagine the greatness Julian could have achieved had he continued his studies under my tutelage.”

“I look forward to your guidance,” Jaskier responded.

Valdo placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and drew him forward to kiss his cheek. “Alas, perhaps I will make something of you yet.”

Every time Valdo spoke, Jaskier’s mind bowed under the weight of it. Heat rose in his cheeks, and he craved more of those touches even as shivers of revulsion ran down his spine.

“Julian, come. Attend me.”

Valdo led Jaskier into the study. He plucked the volume of The Collected Verse of Gonzal de Verceo off the shelf. “You have a lovely voice, Julian. Will you read to me?”

It wasn’t a question. “Yes, Master Valdo,” Jaskier stood to the side as Valdo reclined on the couch. Jaskier flipped past the dedication and introduction and began on the first page of poetry.

Valdo dozed off, and Jaskier sat on the desk as he continued reading. Reading aloud was no hardship, and he read through the first quarter of the book before a knock sounded at the door.

Valdo woke with a start. “Enough, Julian.”

Jaskier paused mid-sentence.

“Your lunch is ready, Master Valdo,” Gregor bowed and stood aside to let them pass through to the dining room.

They all sat together discussing politics, or rather, Valdo spoke on the subject, and the rest of them listened. Jaskier stared down at his plate. He was neither asked nor expected to have an opinion.

After the meal, Valdo dismissed Jaskier and Gregor to the study. “Study my work, Julian. My poetry ought to be as familiar to you as your own.”

Gregor closed the door, allowing them privacy. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier stared at the door for a moment longer. “Do I look alright?” He shuddered and dramatically flung himself into the large plush chair by the bookshelf.

Gregor took a tentative step closer. “How do you feel?”

Jaskier leaned back and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. “My head feels like a split watermelon. What the fuck is going on, Gregor? I feel violated, but I think I sorted out what’s true and what’s not. He’s manipulating me. Are you under his sway too?”

“There are times I feel the burden more than others. I discovered the truth some years ago. How are you resisting him?”

“It’s like a worm wiggling around in my brain depositing excrement on every thought. But I dreamt about — well, it doesn’t matter. What’s going on? How is he doing this?”

“Don’t you know? Isn’t that why you left us before?”

“I knew fuck-all. Marx left me. You all left me.”

“What are you saying? I was there, Julian. You stormed out and never came back. Master Valdo was livid.”

“I walked out, yes. Fuck, you assumed I fled because he beat me?” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Gregor, it never occurred to any of you that you’re the ones who left me behind, did it? I was upset, and I got drunk. So drunk, I couldn’t walk straight. And then you were gone.” Jaskier laughed bitterly. “I wish leaving had been my choice. When I heard the rumours that I was the one who left, I didn’t know what to think. I assumed Marx was ashamed of me, and that’s why I was abandoned. The irredeemable protégé who walked out, absolving Marx from any failure to mould his student in his image properly. It still sounded more dashing than, ‘I got drunk and they left without me.’”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. _I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him._ And yet, he told me to love him.”

“Do you?”

Jaskier groaned. “It isn’t real.”

“I know.”

“He can’t change my memories. I know what’s true, even if it feels like it isn't.” Jaskier sat up. “Gregor, he threatened to do something terrible to my friend.”

Gregor quickly looked away and picked up a scroll and thrust it at Jaskier. “As Master Valdo requested, we must study.”

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“You must look your best this evening. I’ll lend you my powder later to cover up that horrible bruise on your jaw before the party.”

“And about that, thanks for ditching me at the Golden Sturgeon. Glad I know I can count on you when I need a hand. I’m lucky a bruise is all I got.”

“I’m forbidden from engaging in public conflicts.”

“Don’t you get tired of being under his control?”

“This is how things are. I know you can be happy here if you give it a chance. It’s not a bad life. Look at everything we have.”

“A gilded cage is still a cage. Don’t you want to live on your terms?”

“It’s best not to think of such things. Julian, come, we must practice,” Gregor begged. “Master Valdo said we must.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and stood up, deliberately avoiding the desk and Gregor. “Are these Marx’s books?” Jaskier said, scanning the bookshelves.

“Yes, this is our residence in Novigrad. Master Valdo prides himself on being well-read. Julian, stop messing around. We have work to do.”

“I am a home of knowledge, both banal and profound. In grand halls and small homes, I can be found.”

“What?”

“It’s a riddle. Don’t tell me you forget the contests we used to have?”

“I know it’s a riddle.” Gregor tapped his fingers on the desk. “And entirely uninspired. The answer is obviously a bookshelf. Now can we get on with your studies?”

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier mumbled as he continued poking at the books. “Give me a moment.”

“Have you been keeping up with Master Valdo’s career?”

“Hard not to,” Jaskier confessed.

There. Red leather with a worn spine. Jaskier glanced at the door as he plucked the volume off the shelf. It was handwritten in Elder. Flipping through the pages revealed the author to be Ireneus var Steingard.

“The dissemination of Kiyan, Witcher, School of Cat.” Jaskier wondered if Geralt had known the unfortunate witcher described within. He scanned ahead in the journal, it had been a while since he’d deciphered elder text, but he understood enough to catch on. Cat school was only one of many varieties of witcher. Wolf, Cat. Bear. The other words were unknown to him.

There was a summary of other witcher schools and a list of names. Vesemir, Oliver, Eskel, Freygor, Geralt. The list went on, but Jaskier’s eyes froze on the name of his friend. Fuck.

“Julian, focus,” Gregor pleaded.

“Don’t fret.” Jaskier waved Gregor away. He flipped through more pages and saw sketches of various armour styles of medallions, map locations. This book could not remain in Valdo’s possession.

Gregor pressed again, “What if he asks what we’ve covered?”

Jaskier sighed and took the scroll Gregor had been waving at him. A newer song titled the Yellow Flowers of Spring. He passed it back to Gregor and recited it word for word. “Good enough?”

“You already know them?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I am a professional. I know the lyrics; I know the notes. Just because I despise the man doesn't mean I refuse requests.”

He needed to find a place to hide the journal. Or destroy it. Jaskier paced the room, peeking around shelves and into corners. “Gregor, my throat is dry. Would you please bring me a glass of wine?”

“Then, will you cooperate?”

“Yes, of course.” Jaskier waited for Gregor to leave the room.

He found the perfect place to hide the book. Possibly. A loose board at the bottom of the bookshelf behind the desk. Jaskier grabbed the envelope opener and pried it between the slats of wood. It revealed a small dark space under the shelf, covered in dust, cobwebs, and mouse droppings. Perfect. He wedged the book deep within and pushed the wood back in place.

Jaskier dusted off his hands.

Gregor returned with two glasses of wine and narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. Nothing important. Please don’t say anything.”

“About what?” Gregor teased. “Now, you promised to cooperate. Let’s at least pretend to be doing what we’re supposed to.”

Jaskier acquiesced and soberly recited the popular modern ballads. “Will you be going to the performance tonight with Valdo?”

“I accompany Valdo to all his performances.”

“You weren't at the festival in Rinde.”

Gregor looked away. “Master Valdo began planning your downfall the moment he saw your name on the register. Julian, just because I’m beholden to him doesn’t mean I condone his actions. I have no power to stop him, but I can find excuses not to participate.”

“I have to get out of here. He’s going to try and influence me again. You know he will. What if it works next time?”

“Julian, don’t do anything foolish.”

“He killed Sera,” Jaskier stated.

“Don’t say such things.”

“You know it’s true. How can you sit by and do nothing?”

“Someone has to stop him.”

“And you think that someone is you?”

“Why not? Oh, come on, don’t give me that look. Stranger things have happened. What kind of help do you need?” Jaskier asked.

“I know the source of his power.” Gregor crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “He wears a pendant next to his heart.”

“That’s how he controls people? Are you sure?” Jaskier whispered excitedly.

“Yes. I’m certain.” Gregor pressed his hands together. “Not long ago, I gained possession of a duplicate. I haven’t had the courage to act, but the reward for delivering the enchanted pendant is substantial.”

“How do we make the switch?”

“It’s too risky.” Gregor wrung his hands and paced the length of the room. He glanced at the door. “He’ll kill us if he finds out we’re plotting against him?”

“As he did with Sera,” Jaskier said.

Gregor looked away. “Yes. Julian, the things I’ve seen him make people do, your blood would run cold.”

“Then you can imagine what he’ll do to me when he figures out his mind-control trick isn’t working as he planned. Gregor, please.”

“He only removes the pendant for his bath. If we —”

The door swung open, and Gregor startled so badly he stumbled and nearly fell.

Marx strode in, surveying the papers strewn about. “Tell me, what have you accomplished?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Master Valdo, we were just speaking of you. I think it would help my memorization process to hear the songs, as they’re intended, by a true master. Would you sing for us?”

Valdo preened. “I will indulge you tomorrow, Julian. For now, I must prepare for this evening’s performance. Join me.”

Jaskier cast one last nervous glance toward Gregor and followed the troubadour up to his rooms. A bath was already prepared; the water was still steaming.

“It feels good to be back, doesn’t it?” Valdo pressed.

Jaskier felt a chill run down his spine as the influence swept over him yet again. It did feel good to be back.

“Do you recall our routine?” Valdo asked.

“Yes, Master Valdo,” Jaskier answered. He stepped up, hands hovering over the clasps of Valdo’s doublet. “May I?”

“You may.”

Jaskier’s fingers trembled as he released the fasteners and slid the doublet from Valdo’s arms. He then unlaced the throat of the chemise beneath. It was far more delicate work than helping Geralt with his armour.

Fuck. Geralt. Bile rose in Jaskier’s throat as poisoned feelings invaded his memories. He’d tended to Geralt’s wounds, wiped guts and blood off his armour, and Geralt never appreciated any of it.

No.

Geralt never demanded. Not any of those things. Geralt took care of him. And lately, Jaskier would deserve it if Geralt did abandon him. But Geralt stayed, even though Jaskier had given him every reason not to.

“Is something wrong, Julian?” Valdo asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ve missed this,” Jaskier lied to cover his agitation.

“As I’ve missed you.” Valdo took Jaskier’s hand. “I won’t let you go again.”

“Why?” Jaskier asked. He bit his tongue against saying more.

“Because. Because I loved you,” Valdo replied. “I’ll never forgive you for leaving me. Don’t ever betray my trust again.”

Jaskier swallowed. “I tried so hard to please you.”

“I had to be firm with you. You had so much potential. Can you believe you’re now the same age as I was when we first met? I had just started to rise to fame.”

“So much has happened,” Jaskier whispered. He released the clasp on Valdo’s trousers and offered his arm for Valdo to hold as he stepped out of them.

Valdo slipped the rings off his fingers and removed the golden pendant from around his neck. He placed on a silk pillow before entering the bath.

The pendant. Jaskier lingered at the table and stared at the piece of jewelry. Could it really be the source of Valdo’s power? Jaskier remembered it. Valdo owned a vast assortment of jewelry, but the pendant was the only item he wore every day.

Jaskier had never challenged his master’s demands. How much of that loyalty had been coercion?

“What are you ogling at, Julian?” Valdo asked.

“Your opal ring, it’s new, isn’t it?”

“You always did prefer that type of stone, didn’t you? Do you still have the broach I gave you?” Valdo held Jaskier’s hand for support as he stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the hot water.

“No, I’m sorry.” A man on the north Pontar had held a knife to his throat and relieved him of that bauble.

“I didn’t expect you to have it still. I hope you bargained a good price when you sold it?”

He’d been spared his life. “Yes, fair enough.”

“Add the oils.”

Jaskier glanced at the collection of oils. Lavender, clary sage, and geranium. He added the fragrances to the water. “Will that be all?” His gaze flicked to the pendant.

“I thought you said you remembered our routine, Julian,” Valdo waved him closer.

“Would you like me to wash your hair, Master Valdo?”

“Yes. It pleases you to serve me.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw, anticipating the coercive power as he drew his fingers through Valdo’s hair. But his thoughts returned to Geralt. He could play with Geralt’s hair for hours and not grow bored. He imagined his witcher bound to a table the way that unfortunate cat school witcher had been in the illustration.

He could drown the troubadour now. Push down on his shoulders, hold him underwater—

“Julian?”

Jaskier licked his lips. “Yes, sorry. I was imagining the things I would like to do to you, Master Valdo.”

“Do tell.”

“Do you remember the chocolate fountain?”

Valdo groaned and shifted his hips in the water. “Oh, yes. Continue.”

“Ahem, well—I would—” The door opened, cutting Jaskier’s story short, and Gregor stepped in with spectacular timing. Jaskier offered a silent prayer to the gods for interrupting that trip down memory lane.

“With your permission, Master Valdo, I will attend you for the rest of your bath to allow Julian the opportunity to freshen up before this evening’s celebration.”

“Gregor, your timing is deplorable,” Valdo grumbled. “So be it. Julian, you may be excused,” Valdo murmured as he relaxed in the water.

Gregor passed Jaskier the replica pendant as he took his place. Jaskier’s heart pounded. Certainly, Valdo would hear the thunderous beats? He leaned over the tub and kissed Valdo’s cheek.

“Julian, ponder on what you were telling me. I expect a full demonstration this evening after my performance.”

Jaskier coughed. “Thank you, Master Valdo,” He said and swept his hand across the table and made the exchange. “I look forward to it.”


	14. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Violence

Jaskier freshened up in his room, washed his face and hands, straightened his doublet and properly fastened the clasps.

The tendrils of Valdo’s influence had faded almost entirely, and now Jaskier held the pendant in his hand. This was it, the key to putting an end to Valdo’s manipulations.

Jaskier descending the staircase and entered the study. He clutched the pendant in his hand so tight it felt like the etchings would leave imprints on his palms. The door clicked as he closed it. He pried off the board from the base of the shelf and added the pendant to the hidden space.

Perfect. The plank fit back in place. Jaskier wiped the dust off his hands and combed his fingers through his hair. 

It was done. How long would it take Marx to notice the pendant was a fake?

He should leave. But what would happen to Gregor and Felicity? Jaskier didn’t want to fail them the way he failed Sera. He’d think of something. A crowded public area would be the safest. He’d wait until they were at the party, convince them to leave with him while Marx performed. Geralt had to be back from his contract hunt by now; Jaskier would take them to Crippled Kate’s. 

In the meantime, he had an entire library to distract himself with. He looked over the bookshelf. He hadn’t had time to admire the collection of volumes on these shelves earlier — _Demetri Falador’s Epic Siren’s Song_. The Academy didn’t even boast a copy of this classic. The closest Jaskier had ever come to reading it was an abridged version in the Countess de Stael’s library. He settled into the overstuffed leather settee and stretched out. The story opened with a shipwreck and near-drowning. Jaskier lost himself to the narrative of the woman on the beach, the lone survivor, as she found a nesting of sirens. 

The door swung open hard enough to slam into the wall behind it. The bodyguards from the night on the dock entered, with Valdo a step behind them. “Seize Julian. Bring him out here.”

“What?” Jaskier attempted to pull away, but the men grabbed his arms. “No, wait, careful with the book. Don’t drop it. It’s a first edition.”

They ignored his pleas and let the priceless volume fall to the floor, spine open and bent.

Felicity hovered by the table. She bit her lip and wrung her hands as she watched Jaskier hauled to the center of the room. Jaskier’s blue doublet lay spread out on the table. The vial of poison placed neatly on top. 

Oh. _Fuck_.

“Master Valdo asked me to collect your clothes for the laundress,” she blew her nose into silk cloth. “How could you betray us like this? Master Valdo was kind to you!” 

“What is this, explain.”

There was no push, no compulsion to follow Valdo’s order. “It’s nothing. A tincture for acne. I take it daily.” Jaskier stammered.

“You’re lying to me, Julian,” Marx said. “You shouldn’t be able to lie. Last night I assumed we’d had a breakthrough. Perhaps we weren’t as successful as you’d have me believe.”

“We were, we are,” Jaskier stammered.

Katja’s story came back to him, the price of revenge. He understood now.

“Why then, do I not trust you?”

“What can I do? How do I prove myself to you, Master Valdo?” 

“I command you to drink it.” Marx thrust the vial forward. 

Jaskier hesitated. It was enough. 

Marx nodded to the bodyguard on his left. “Erik. Do it.” 

Erik twisted Jaskier’s right arm higher up his back. His joint popped, and his vision exploded with pain. 

“How did you do it? How are you resisting my charms?”

Jaskier bit his lip and tasted blood. He didn’t trust Gregor not to succumb to pressure. Jaskier thought of Geralt; he thought of Sera. He couldn't risk Valdo getting possession of the enchanted pendant again. “A spell. A sorceress made me immune.”

Marx stepped forward. “And you intended to kill me with this poison?”

“No!” 

He gasped and cried out again as his injured arm was further contorted. How much would it take to cause permanent damage? His fingers tingled. What if he couldn’t play the lute anymore? And fuck, he should worry about his life, not his career.

Marx slowly shook his head. “Dijkstra warned me you had something up your sleeve. I didn’t think to take the warning literally, however.” Marx sneered and held the vial of dark liquid up to the light. “What does the poison do? How did you intend to kill me?”

No magic was necessary to wring the truth from him as Erik twisted Jaskier’s arm again. This time Jaskier screamed. Panting, he blinked tears from his eyes. “It was to ruin your voice. It only burns the throat. I didn’t want to kill you.” 

Gregor and Felicity stood together. Felicity’s hands covering her face as she cried. Gregor stared fixedly forward, his expression blank.

"Julian, have you heard the story about the crooked merchant?"

Jaskier swallowed. “Yes, please don’t do this.”

“Consequences, Julian! There was once a travelling merchant. One day, he discovered other merchants had walked the same road ahead of him. He hired thugs to break his competitor’s legs. These thugs, about to attack their target, were then offered twice the bounty to do the act instead to the travelling merchant who hired them. They returned, stoles his wares and his coin, and broke his legs on the side of the road.”

Jaskier grimaced. That was the worst retelling of the fable he’d ever heard. Marx crouched in front of Jaskier and brushed the hair from his eyes. “There is a price to pay for betrayal.”

No one knew where he’d hidden the pendant. If they didn’t find his hiding spot, his mission wasn’t in vain. He could barely breathe past the fear gripping his chest. But it could be worse, so much worse.

The bodyguards held him still. Erik grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Valdo flicked the cork off the top of the vial and pried Jaskier’s mouth open. 

Jaskier counted on Geralt showing up and busting down the door for a last-second rescue. 

Marx tipped the vial to Jaskier’s lips and held his hand over his mouth. Jaskier tried not to swallow. The liquid burned within his mouth. Still, he could only hold out so long before he reflexively swallowed. He gagged and choked, but Valdo and his bodyguards held him in place.

Marx stood over him, a looming shadow. “Let him go.”

Jaskier fell. He squeezed his eyes shut as fire bloomed within his throat. He could only draw the faintest of breath.

Marx stood and watched. Felicity wept. 

“Master Valdo, please, let me help him,” Gregor pleaded.

“No one moves. This is justice.” Marx crouched beside Jaskier. “You were supposed to be different.” 

Marx stood. “The performance, I mustn’t be late. Felicity, get ready for the birthday performance at the var Attre’s estate. Gregor, watch over Julian. I’m not finished with him yet. Erik, dismiss the staff.”

“What if he dies?” Gregor asked. 

“Then it will be no less than what he deserves.” 

Jaskier tasted copper in his mouth, like being gripped by the djinn curse all over again. He tried to push up from the floor but faltered as a fit of coughing overcame him. 

Gregor sat at the table, staring from afar until Marx and Felicity departed with the bodyguards. “What have you done, Julian,” Gregor whispered. “You’ve ruined everything.”

Jaskier tried to speak, but blood dripped from his lips. That was the nature of revenge, wasn’t it? Jaskier deserved this, to suffer the fate he’d wished on another. It was poetic. 

“Where’s the pendant?” Gregor tugged at Jaskier’s arm, his injured arm, but let go as Jaskier shuddered from the shock of pain. Gregor ran up the stairs, returned. Paced more. “Where did you hide it?”

Jaskier couldn’t even suck in enough air to whisper.

“We need to get out of here before Master Valdo returns. He’ll kill us both.” He tugged again, this time at Jaskier’s uninjured arm.

Jaskier tried to get up. Managed to make it to his knees before collapsing.

“Get up, please,” Gregor begged, pressing his fists to the sides of his head. “You were in the study; did you hide the pendant there? Where is it?”

Jaskier closed his eyes. He heard Gregor run across the room. The thumping of books being thrown off shelves, desk draws opened and closed. 

“Where the fuck is it, Julian? I should never have trusted you. I’m as good as dead if I don’t deliver what I promised. Damnit.” Gregor knelt at Jaskier’s side. “Master Valdo will find out his pendant is fake as soon as he attempts to sing. Come, we need to get out of here.”

Gregor pulled Jaskier’s arm over his shoulder, tried to drag him to his feet.

Jaskier gripped Gregor’s doublet. He only got as far as his knees before he collapsed again.

“I’m sorry, Julian, I’m sorry.” Jaskier felt his friend’s lips brush his cheek. “At least — at least you won’t be telling any secrets, will you?” Gregor pulled away. Jaskier heard the front door slam shut.

Jaskier tried to raise to his hands and knees. Dark droplets of blood dripped from his lips. The edges of his vision went grey, and he was unconscious before he hit the floor. 

“Is he alive?” Marx asked. Jaskier saw Erik, the bodyguard, towering over him.

“Yes, he’s alive.” 

“You vile scum-sucking toad. What have you done with it?” Marx kicked Jaskier in the side, knelt, and shoved the gold pendant at his face. “It’s fake. Fake! Where is it? Tell me now!”

Jaskier tried to cough, to clear his throat, to no avail.

“Gregor!” Valdo yelled.

But Gregor was gone. Felicity tugged at Marx’s arm. “Master, please. It was only one performance. This day has been so terrible, it’s no wonder your voice was stressed. I’ll bring you hot tea. With lemons.”

Valdo’s face turned purple with rage and he shoved Felicity aside. He motioned to his bodyguards. “Search him. It must be here.”

Erik ran his hands over Jaskier’s clothing. “Nothing.”

“What did you do with it? Was Gregor part of your plot? Where is he?” Marx asked. “Did Dijkstra put you up to this?”

Marx stood up, mumbling to himself. “I only removed my pendant for my bath. That’s when you made the switch?” He stared down at Jaskier. “There was no other opportunity. What did you do after? You went to your room to prepare. Felicity, search his room. Look everywhere.”

Felicity ran to obey.

Marx pulled an ornate knife from a sheath on his belt. “You’ll tell me what you did with it, or I vow, I will tear you apart. I will cut off your fingers and feed them to you.”

Jaskier pulled his arms close to his body and clenched his fists. He wished the poison had been more potent, strong enough to kill him outright. Marx tugged at his wrist and pushed the cold steel of the blade against his hand. Fear and pain roiled in Jaskier’s gut, and he gagged, spitting blood. 

Marx reeled back and staggered to his feet. “Disgusting.” 

Jaskier curled and tried to turn his face away. 

Felicity returned, panting. “There’s nothing in his room, Master Valdo.”

“This is a waste of time. Iwan, find Gregor. I need answers,” Valdo ordered.

“What about the body?” Erik asked. 

Time blurred. A large object thumped down the stairs. Jaskier didn’t have the strength to look.

“Get rid of him,” Valdo demanded.

Erik stepped forward, searing pain shot through Jaskier’s right arm as he was hauled up. Jaskier finally saw what they had planned. A travel trunk. Jaskier kicked and fought. The first attempt to lift him into the trunk failed. Marx stepped in and grabbed Jaskier’s other arm, the second attempt went no better and Marx fell in the commotion, Jaskier on top of him. 

Jaskier grabbed at Marx’s belt, seeking anything to hold onto, to keep from being shoved in the box. His fingers clasped the dagger just as Erik hauled Marx back to his feet. Jaskier grasped the weapon and nearly impaled himself as they lifted him again and dropped him in the box.

Hands pushed him down. _No!_ The lid closed, and all went dark. 

The lock clicked shut.

Jaskier tried to breathe through the panic. The weapon slipped from his fingers and fell around his feet. The confinement was too restrictive to kick at the sides. Jaskier could barely move. He tried to yell, but his voice made no sound, and the attempt left his throat raw.

Sounds from outside were muffled. Jaskier’s pounding heart and ragged breaths drowned out all noises beyond the confined space. 

He couldn’t move his right arm. He tried to shift, wiggled to bring his left arm up to the lid and felt around. The chest locked on the outside. There was nothing to find. He clawed at the wood with his fingernails. His nails broke and tore.

He tried to move, his heart raced, he couldn't breathe. He needed to escape. He had to think, not panic. The dagger. If he could reach it. 

He twisted, his fingers gripped the hilt — pulled — and fumbled. The blade slipped.

The chest lifted, swayed. Marx shouted orders. The door opened and closed, and the townhouse’s silence was replaced by the sounds of Novigrad streets.

Jaskier tried to scream because fuck the burning in his throat. But there was nothing; he made no sound at all. He pounded against the sides. Someone had to notice. All it would take was for one person to see and intervene. He’d be saved.

He bumped against the side as the angle of gravity changed. The knife slid across the bottom of the chest, and he scrambled to grab it, clutched it tightly in his fist. All movement stilled. And then his stomach dropped as everything fell. The impact shook him with bruising force.

Water seeped in. Jaskier struggled harder. All this just to drown. He stabbed the knife into the lid, ramming it over and over to try and break the wood. He thumped the sides, the top. Over and over. The water reached his shoulders. The chest tilted and rolled, and Jaskier choked. 

Water filled the space.


	15. Finding Jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt returns to Crippled Kate's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted early because I have no chill.

Geralt walked into Crippled Kate’s, ignored the stares directed his way, and headed straight for the bar. He grabbed a pitcher of ale, chugged it straight, and then took the biggest loaf of bread and took a massive bite.

That felt better.

Katja stood in the doorway, hand on her hip. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Sewers. Tunnel collapsed.” He looked around. The dog sniffed at his feet. Good, that meant Jaskier would be close by. “What day is it?”

“Monday.”

Jaskier must have missed his chance to follow through on whatever plan he’d made. Didn’t matter. They’d catch up to this Valdo bastard in the next town—

“Witcher, wait.” Katja grabbed his hand before he could leave. “No one’s seen Jaskier since Friday.”

It took him a moment to process that. “Three days ago? Where did you last see him?” 

“Here. He ducked out before his evening performance and never returned. Even left his dog behind. Should have known he’d make the wrong choice. Witcher—Geralt, I believe he’s gone to confront that troubadour who’s been giving him guff. ”

“Valdo Marx. Where’s he staying? I’ll go find him.”

“The scoundrel fled town yesterday with his entourage. Everyone’s been talking about his botched performance Saturday evening at the var Attre manor. I’ve heard nothing about our Jaskier.”

“Was Jaskier with them when they fled?”

“Have you not been listening? No one has seen your bard in three days.”

Geralt took another bite of bread. He needed to change, sharpen his weapons, get Roach. Despite what Katja said, Valdo Marx must have taken Jaskier with him. It should be easy enough to track a famous troubadour. Geralt turned to go up to their room. 

“There’s a man in your room,” Katja added.

“You moved our stuff?”

“No. He was searching for you. Insisted on waiting.”

Geralt headed upstairs. An unknown man lay in his bed. Geralt slammed the door shut, and the intruder sat up with a startled cry. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“Gregor.” The man cleared his throat and stood up. He bowed in greeting. “You must be Julian’s witcher.”

Geralt reached over his shoulder to grip the hilt of his steel sword. 

Gregor retreated until his back pressed against the wall. “Perhaps Julian mentioned me? We’re friends.”

“Jaskier.”

“What?” 

“His name is Jaskier.” 

“Excuse me, my apologies, I’m more accustomed to addressing him with less formality. But if referring to him by his stage name makes you more comfortable...” Gregor trailed off.

“He never mentioned you.” 

The man hesitated. “I was, until recently, in the employ of Valdo Marx.”

Geralt took two steps forward. “Where is Jaskier?”

“Oh, uh, well. I was getting to that if you don’t mind,” Gregor’s voice quavered.

“I’ll ask one more time. Where. Is. Jaskier.”

Gregor sucked in a deep breath. “Apologies.” He edged around Geralt toward the door. For now, Geralt allowed it. Gregor gripped the door handle. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere less private?”

Geralt pushed his hand on the door to hold it shut. “Now.”

“My deepest condolences,” Gregor said the words in a rush. 

That couldn’t mean what Geralt thought it did. But Gregor’s next words erased all doubt. 

“He—died valiantly, if it’s of any solace.”

Geralt lowered his arm. “When?”

“Saturday evening.”

“How?”

Gregor glanced away. “Permit me to tell the story properly? Over a drink, perhaps?”

He let Gregor scamper through the door and down to the tavern. He sat at a table near the bar. 

“What happened?” Geralt asked. Jaskier couldn’t be dead. 

Gregor straightened his sleeves and fidgeted with a tear at the edge of his cuff. He tugged at the back of his doublet. “You were in on Julian’s plot, were you not?”

“No.”

“You say you knew nothing of his scheme? About the poison?” 

“What happened to Jaskier?”

“He fell to his own devices, I’m afraid. Jaskier’s ulterior motives for rejoining our entourage came to light. Master Valdo was livid. He demanded an eye for an eye. Or throat for throat, more accurately. I argued on Julian’s behalf, I tried to save him, but my efforts were for naught. It was terrible. The trauma I suffered at the sight, I fear I will never overcome it.”

“What type of poison?” 

“A foul looking liquid. Meant to rob Master Valdo of his voice, but not to kill. Poor Julian. I stayed by his side for as long as I dared. I fear I barely escaped with my life. You don’t happen to have a pendant in your possession, do you? Did Julian manage to slip something your way before his untimely demise?”

“No.” Geralt drank the rest of his tankard. 

“Fuck. Dijkstra is going to kill me.”

“Dijkstra?”

“I was to deliver an artifact, should the opportunity arise. Julian was employed as your barker, was he not? Perhaps I could—”

“No.” 

“Ah. Well. I thought not.”

After Valdo Marx, Geralt’s next stop would be the spymaster. “Then what happened?”

“I was not there for the final act. Julian begged me to save myself, to live so that I may tell others of his doom. Though Master Valdo’s bodyguard searched for me, I endeavoured to stay close by should an opportunity to offer aid arise. Master Valdo’s bodyguards carried a travel chest from the residence to the bridge and heaved it over the edge in the early morning hours. I am only one man, and sadly, I was ill-prepared to intervene. My fear is poor Julian was trapped within. And then, overcome with grief, I escaped to this fine establishment. I hoped to find you here. But alas.” Gregor paused. “But I waited. Mistress Katja has been most solicitous with her hospitality. I suppose you’ll see to it Julian receives a proper burial?”

Geralt took the glass of ale from Gregor, drank it, and yanked Gregor by the arm into the kitchen. Katja raised her eyebrows.

“Have you got somewhere to store this vermin until I return?”

“Where are you going?”

“To find out what happened to Jaskier.” Geralt replied coldly.

Katja nodded and moved aside a table to reveal a trap door in the floor. “Root cellar. Is Jaskier alright? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt stated bluntly. 

“I wasn’t lying!” Gregor yelped as Geralt pushed him toward the opening. 

Katja closed the door after Gregor climbed down. “How long do you expect me to keep him down there?” 

“Until I get back.” 

Geralt went directly to Rookside Bridge. Nothing out of place at first glance. He walked down to the shore of the river, jumped in, and followed the direction of the current. A large wooden chest lay submerged. Geralt rose to the surface and took another breath before diving back down. A drowner swam past, and Geralt held his dagger ready, but it didn’t engage.

He grabbed the handle of the chest and dragged it to the shore. Rivulets of water leaked as Geralt pulled up onto the muddy bank. And then, he sat. According to Gregor’s story, he’d find Jaskier within. He wasn’t ready for that.

The river gurgled. A prostitute called out to someone and offered her services for a discount on account of the late hour. Geralt sat and stared at the reflection of the moon sparkling on the water’s surface. 

They would have caught up to Valdo Marx in another location. If only Jaskier had trusted him to help. Geralt should have abandoned the contract. He should have been there when Jaskier needed him. 

He placed his hand on the chest. It had to be done. Jaskier deserved a proper burial. But the lid—it felt wrong. Geralt looked closer. The latch was broken. He took a breath and lifted. 

Empty. Geralt let out a harsh laugh of relief. Nothing. Nothing inside but murky water.

Scratches marred the inside the lid, thin knife marks gouging the wood.

Jaskier didn’t die in that box. But then, where was he? The underlying fear didn’t lift. Jaskier would have returned to Crippled Kate’s if he’d been able to, wouldn’t he?

Geralt walked the shoreline, looking for footprints. Nothing on this side. He swam across and searched the other side. Here. A dead drowner, most of its body hidden from view among the debris of tattered fishing nets and flotsam. Deep wounds on the throat characteristic of a knife or a dagger. There were imprints in the mud as though someone had crawled their way up. A piece of leather lodged in the muck. Geralt pulled it out. A boot. Jaskier’s boot. 

Jaskier had managed to fight one drowner off, but others may have pulled him down. Geralt walked along the shore to find more clues. Here. Mismatched tracks, one foot bare and one booted, leading into the sewer.

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice echoed off the brick walls as he trudged inside—the wet surface made following a trail impossible. The tunnel headed straight for about fifty feet and branched off. Grates blocked the left passage. Geralt followed the tunnel to the right. 

He paused to examine a bloody handprint on the stone—human blood. Geralt drew in a breath and gagged on the stench of sewage, but he caught the scent he was looking for. Chamomile. Jaskier would have been blind in the dark down here. Geralt closed his eyes, imagined Jaskier, alone and injured. He trailed his hand along the wall. The passage continued, but a corridor opened to the right with steps leading up. Geralt sniffed the air. Jaskier would have searched for a way out, a way back up to the surface. Geralt followed the stairs to a wooden door and listened. Quiet voices on the other side. Locked. Geralt pounded his fist on the wood.

The voices went silent.

A latch clicked, and the door opened a crack as a weathered face peeked out. She peered back into the room behind her. “Told you no drowner thumps on a door like that, ya’ bleedin’ fools. Well, what are you standing there for.” She opened the door. “Get in, get in. It’s a right crowded thoroughfare down there now, innit?” 

Geralt entered. The woman slammed the door shut and fastened the latches back in place. The chamomile scent was stronger here. Whatever happened to Jaskier, he’d made it this far. 

The room held an odd mix of people; human, elf, dwarf, and gnome. Garbage heaped in the corners, and it didn’t smell much better than the sewers had. Blankets were strewn over the floor as bedding. Outcasts. They stared at him, cowering and frightened. 

“I’m looking for someone,” Geralt said, careful to keep his tone low and hide the urgency he felt beneath. 

An old woman coughed and pointed at the exit. “There’s only us here. Everyone else is out there.” 

Helpful. “A friend of mine was here—yesterday or the day before. Possibly late at night. I need to find him. He was hurt.”

The woman hacked up phlegm and spat on the floor beside her. 

A younger man leaped up and clapped. “Oh! I know, I know! The bleeding mute!” 

“Where did he go?”

“Can’t stay here. Nope. Tilda took him.” The young man answered fast. The words were out before the elf beside him punched his arm. 

“Who’s Tilda?” Geralt crouched down. “He’s a close friend, and I want to help him. I believe in repaying favours. Please.” 

“You’re no good to us, monster hunter,” the elf said brusquely. “We’re the monsters of Novigrad, so far as the fine people above us are concerned. But if telling you will get you out of our hair, then I’ll do so. Tilda’s a herbalist. The human boy is undoubtedly dead by now. We’d have had to toss the body back down into the sewers. Tilda took him off our hands.”

“Where do I find her?” 

“In Pinnacle Square. Set back from the street, hard to see. Got a little flower picture hanging above her door.” 

“What did she want with my friend?” 

“Bodies make bait in young whoreson’s fighting pits. That’s where he is by now. I’ve no doubt.”

Geralt headed out, not wasting any more time. He emerged out on the street in the bits and headed to Pinnacle Square. He disregarded the stares and frightened glances cast his way. He’d been trapped underground for days, swam in the murky Novigrad water, traipsed around sewers. If his presence cleared a path through the crowd, all the better. 

He found the herbalist shop by scent and threw open the door. Delicate jars of herbs and tinctures lined the shelves, and a gnomish woman wearing a flower-patterned dress stood staring him down. 

“Are you Tilda?”

She reached below her counter and came up holding a small crossbow. “Any closer, and you’ll lose an eye.” 

Geralt held up his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m looking for a friend of mine. A young human man, wounded, bleeding. Came up from the sewers. I was told you took him.” 

She rubbed her fingers together. “A friend?”

“Yes. He was hurt.”

“Are you a bounty hunter?” she asked, noting his swords. 

“No, I’m a witcher. Geralt of Rivia.” 

She narrowed her eyes before clasping her hand over her mouth in sudden realization. She placed the crossbow down on the counter. “I thought the boy looked familiar. He’s the one who sings all those songs about monster hunts, isn’t he? Jaskier, the Bard, isn’t it? I saw him perform by the Old Oak one summer at Oxenfurt. Clever lad.” 

“Yes. Tell me, please, where is he?” 

“I’m sorry.”

Fuck. Geralt placed his hand on the wall to steady himself. 

“You misunderstand me.” Tilda corrected a moment later. “Your bard is alive, but I fear not for much longer. His condition is dire.” 

“Where?” 

She hesitated again. “Safe. I brought him to the grove.”

“Take me there.”

“You are not one of us. The grove is a haven for outcasts.”

“Don’t I look the part to you?” 

Tilda blinked and then barked an unpleasant laugh. “Yes. I suppose you do, don’t you? Well. The healing arts are not cheap.”

“I can pay.”

She narrowed her eyes but nodded. “Your word?”

“Yes.”

“With me then, Witcher. It may do the boy good to see a familiar face. This way.” She took him through the side door to a small garden and unlocked an old shed. Geralt only saw a collection of old tools and broken pots, but she closed the door behind them and revealed a hidden door. “Come,” she waved him ahead and pulled the door closed behind her. 

They entered a shadowed lane of dirt and gravel, pitted with a multitude of mud-filled puddles. People huddled under makeshift shacks along the walls. Those they passed pulled their hoods lower to cover their faces. 

“They aren’t comfortable with new-comers. Come along. Quick now.” Tilda hopped down a stairway leading beneath a dilapidated building. 

Blood, sickness, and decay, mixed in with undertones of strong alcohol and medicinal herbs, saturated the air. There were no doors on the rooms, in each lay at least four people on narrow pallets in stages of illness or injury. She led him down the hall to the last room on the right. 

“Here.” Tilda stood aside to allow Geralt space to enter. The odour of death lay heavy in the room.

There he lay. Jaskier. Geralt held his tongue against berating the woman about mixing the living and the dead. He knelt by Jaskier’s side. 

Another woman, a thin elderly human, backed up against the wall, eyes averted. Tilda patted her arm. “Be calm, Maria. He’s one of us. Come to see our young patient. The one who popped up from the sewers.” 

Maria leaned close to Tilda’s ear to whisper; the words not meant for him but easy to hear. “Ross passed this morning.” She flicked her eyes to the pallet beside Jaskier; the sheet pulled up over the head to cover the body beneath. 

Tilda nodded, “Inform Francis. He’ll have someone come take care of it.” Maria scurried away. 

Geralt traced his fingers over the bruises around Jaskier’s neck and lowered the blanket. The bard didn’t stir. Jaskier lay unclothed beneath but clean. Defensive wounds, lacerations matching drowner claws, marred his arms. Bruises covered his ribs and torso. A soiled bandage covered his left side, the cloth discoloured with blood and fluid. He peeled it back and wrinkled his nose at the advanced infection beneath. 

Heat emanated from Jaskier’s body, burning with fever. 

Tilda stepped up to Geralt’s side. “Another day, maybe. He’s already too far gone to save, be cruel to make him linger.”

Geralt understood. He’d seen such decisions made in the past. “I’ll take over from here. Is there a room we can use?” 

“Can you pay?” 

“Yes.” He’d have the coin from the ekimmara contract soon enough. 

“Then I’ve got a room. Come, I’ll show you.”

He reluctantly left Jaskier’s side to follow. Tilda led him up a flight of stairs. These rooms had doors, and she unlocked one and showed him inside. It was small, the sleeping pallet only long enough for a gnome. The space held her scent; it was her private residence.

“It’ll do,” he said.

“I expect payment regardless of whether the boy lives or dies. It’ll be extra to dispose of the body when he passes.” 

Geralt ground his teeth. “Fine.” He gave her what he had on him. 

Tilda counted the coin and nodded. “It’ll do for now.” She collected some of her items and rolled them up in a sheet to take with her. 

Geralt found his way back downstairs. He eased his arms under the bard’s neck and knees and carried him upstairs. 

Jaskier moaned but didn’t wake. Fresh bedding lay in place when Geralt returned to Tilda’s room. She’d even dragged in a pallet long enough for a human. He laid Jaskier down and tucked the blankets around him.

Geralt went in search of fresh bandages, alcohol, and whatever other supplies he could scrounge. There wasn’t much. The dressings were no more than recycled strips of cloth. The salve smelled off. How many patients survived this place? Not like there were other options. The only person he trusted with healing was Nenneke. Jaskier would never make it that far in this condition.

At least, Tilda had attempted to help. She’d cleaned and bandaged a stranger, used resources on someone who might not even survive. 

Geralt removed his armour, placed it on the other side of the room, and washed his hands as thoroughly as the circumstances allowed. He’d see to his comfort later. Jaskier required immediate attention. Those bandages, soiled as they were, needed to be changed. 

Geralt peeled the bandage from Jaskier’s side and winced as dried blood and fluid stuck the cloth to the skin. It looked like the drowner had taken a swipe at him, scratches deep enough to bleed, but not enough to kill. Jaskier whimpered, arm moving restlessly in his sleep. Geralt gripped his wrist to keep him from brushing against the wound.

“It’ll be alright. I’m helping.” Geralt whispered, and the tension in Jaskier’s arm eased. “Do you like it when I talk to you? Usually, you talk enough for the both of us.”

Jaskier’s eyelids fluttered open, and Geralt paused from tending the wound to hold his hand. Jaskier’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. 

Geralt recalled Gregor’s description of the poison, not meant to kill, but to damage Valdo’s voice. And they had forced Jaskier to drink it. "Yes, I’m here.” 

Jaskier’s fingers squeezed his. 

“I'm sorry I was late.” Geralt pressed down on Jaskier's shoulder as he tried to sit up. “Rest.” 

Jaskier tensed again, craning his neck to look down at his side. 

“Don’t look,” Geralt warned and pulled the blanket up to hide the wound. 

Jaskier’s head fell back against the pillow in exhaustion. He mouthed the word, _fuck_ , as his face contorted in pain. 

“Let it out. Breathe through it.”

Jaskier exhaled, fought to draw deep breaths.

Geralt bowed his head. “I followed your tracks. I’ll always find you. I don’t blame you for thinking all I’m good for is wielding steel and silver, but I wish you trusted me enough to help you. Next time—” 

Tears moistened Jaskier’s eyelashes before spilling out and trailing down his temple. 

“Let me help.” Geralt wiped at the salty trail with his thumb. 

Geralt brushed the hair from Jaskier’s fever damp brow. “I’m going to help you sleep. You won’t feel any more pain.” He raised his hand to cast _axii_.

Jaskier shook his head, no. Geralt lowered his arm.

“Alright. I won’t. Not until you want me to.”

Jaskier squeezed his hand. He tried again to talk, then closed his eyes in frustration.

“How about I tell you about my hunt?” Geralt asked and waited for Jaskier to nod. “I found the ekimmara.” He described the investigation in the sewers, how he tracked the beast and located it in the deep cavern. He related the entire tale, and gradually Jaskier’s eyes drifted closed.

“Rest easy.” Geralt kept hold of Jaskier’s hand as his fingers went lax. 


	16. Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt didn’t realize he could be more relieved than he already was, but hearing Jaskier’s voice, raspy and quiet as it was, proved him wrong.

Geralt's hand trembled as he resumed cleaning the wound on Jaskier’s side. He’d seen plenty of injuries in his lifetime and more blood than he cared to think about. Injuries like these were severe, but not a death sentence.

Infection was another matter. Exposure to the Pontar and Jaskier’s trek through the sewer had taken its toll. The salve available here wasn’t worth the shit it smelled like. 

He examined Jaskier’s throat, palpating the sides of his neck. Not like after the djinn attack, but definitely swollen. Geralt eased Jaskier’s jaw open, his throat looked red and raw, but he knew fuck-all about human physiology. What worried him more was that Jaskier had blood on his breath. 

Valdo Marx could run to the ends of the known world if he wished; it wouldn't do him any good. Whatever the outcome, the Cidarian troubadour’s days were numbered. 

While Jaskier slept, Geralt stood to stretch and explore the surroundings. The Grove was dim and concealed in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. The people here were miserable and dirty, most of them cutthroats and criminals, but they weren’t hungry. There was a community here.

“You, kid,” Geralt called over a boy playing dice alone in the dirt. The kid looked up at him—a girl—she looked old enough to run errands. “I’ve got a coin for you if you can deliver a message.”

Her face lit up with excitement. “I’ve got an excellent memory, sir. The best.”

“Good. You know of Crippled Kate’s, yeah? Find Katja there. Tell her our friend is alive, to put our belongings in storage, and I want her guest ready to answer questions next time I return.” 

“Yessir,” the mud-covered urchin promised, and off she ran. 

And then he returned to Jaskier’s side. Fatigue pulled him down. It had been days since he’d had a proper sleep.

Geralt spread out on the floor beside Jaskier. He didn’t know what he was doing. Watching Jaskier suffer wasn’t solving any problems. Jaskier’s breaths were steady for now. All Geralt needed was a quick nap. Then he’d feel ready to carry on. Geralt placed his hand over Jaskier’s, his fingers wrapped under his wrist to his pulse point.

Geralt sat up with a start when the door creaked open. The sun had set, and orange light filtered in through the uncovered window. 

The girl he’d sent to deliver the message peeked her head inside. “Sir?”

“You delivered the message?” 

“I did. Sorry for the delay. The mistress gave me an ale.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Almost twelve. I’m a good worker. I’m old enough to follow direction, and I’m strong, see?” She held up her arm and flexed, showing a tiny lump of muscle. If being a girl’s the problem, look,” she tossed her head forward and bundled her hair up under her cap. “Just as good as any boy. Better. And I’m taller than Swen, and he’s a whole year older than me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lilia. Or Lilly, or if you prefer me to be a boy, I’ll answer to Lyle. Anything really, if you’re paying.” 

“I don’t care if you’re a girl.” 

Lilly released a relieved huff of breath. “That’s good. I’m not all that fond of boys.” She crept further into the room. “He’s bad off, isn’t he?”

“Hmm.”

She bit her lip as she looked at the blankets wrapped around the patient. “It’s no good making a fever hotter.”

“What do you know about it?”

“My mum.” Lilly’s gaze fell. “She got hurt bad. Working. I cared for her. Tilda showed me how.”

“You should go back to her then.”

Lilly’s lips thinned as she drew a quick breath. “She’s gone. Just me and my brother now, and he’s never around. So like I said, any work you got; I can do.”

“You think you can help care for my friend here?”

She stared at Jaskier on the bed again. “You won’t beat me if he dies?”

“No. We aren’t going to let that happen. But I need someone who can sit with him. You can do that?”

Lilly nodded and stepped closer. “When they’re sick and hot like this, you need to let them cool. Tilda told me that.” 

Geralt stood up, let the girl take his place. He needed to find the proper herbs to make a better salve. To get his pay from the alderman. To interrogate Jaskier’s ‘friend’ at Crippled Kate’s. He couldn’t do any of those unless he knew Jaskier was being taken care of.

Geralt patted Jaskier’s thigh. “His name is Jaskier.”

Lilia’s lips parted, and she placed a hand over her chest. “Like the _bard_?” 

“He’s a bard, yes.”

She flushed and inhaled. “No! I saw him last winter when he performed in Hierarch Square. I crawled up on a vegetable stand to get a better look. One of my brother’s girlfriends knows him really well. She said he likes to suck —”

Geralt cleared his throat. 

“Oysters.” Lilly finished. She tugged at the blanket around Jaskier’s shoulders and lowered it to his waist. “You got water?” 

Geralt passed her the waterskin from his bag. She sprinkled some on a cloth and dabbed at Jaskier’s brow. 

“What’s he doing here and not in one of the fancy people sick-homes?”

“It’s a long story.” He revealed the wound. Her face grew pale, but she didn’t gag or make a fuss. “Do you know how to change bandages?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Watch over him. I’ll be back soon,” Geralt told her and left. Walking away pulled on his conscience. But, he was no good to Jaskier as a caregiver. If he allowed the feelings to take over, nothing would get done. 

Geralt headed to the herbalist. Tilda looked up from her counter at her shop. “He dead yet?”

“I need proper supplies.” Geralt told her what he needed.

“I’ve not got all this in stock.” 

“What you have, then.” 

She skipped around the room, sorting through the things he’d asked for. “I’d like to know what you make of it.” 

“What makes you think I know more about your trade than you?” 

“I can name you every plant in the northern kingdoms, list their medicinal properties, and make tinctures for any ailment. But I don’t know witcher secrets.”

“Jaskier’s human. I’m making a human remedy.” 

“Show me anyway. I’m eager to know if I still have tricks to learn.”

Herbs. Celandine. Lavender. Laurel. Geralt used Tilda’s workbench to brew the concoction. He crushed the petals and leaves, added them into a solution of Dwarven Spirit, and placed the flask under the candle. Only a matter of waiting. 

“You still think you can help him?” Tilda asked, hands on her hips as she watched Geralt work.

“Yes.” 

The mixture boiled, and Geralt set it aside. “Do you often bring strangers to the Grove?” 

“No.” 

“Why this time?” Geralt asked, looking to Jaskier. 

“A well-dressed young man wandered up from the sewers; he caught my interest. Not everyday a fancy lad falls into my lap. I thought maybe there’ll be a reward or a ransom.” Tilda wiped the counter and emptied a pouch of leaves to sort through. “That, and offered me his fancy dagger, as an offer of payment, I assume. Couldn’t say it in words, but I got the gist. The boy was dripping blood from his lips. Something ugly happened to his throat. Bad luck for a bard. Doubt he’ll ever sing again, even if he does recover.” She made a face and picked the small weapon off the shelf to show him. “I’ll sell it to you for a fair price.” 

It wasn’t Jaskier’s dagger. Geralt inspected the blade and handed it back to her. She’d accepted the thing; she could keep it. “I’m sure it will fetch a reasonable price with a merchant.” 

Tilda grumbled and put it back.

The mixture cooled.

It was time to head back.

Lilly jumped to her feet as Geralt entered Jaskier’s room. “He’s not moved much, sir. Hasn’t woken at all.” She stepped aside as Geralt took her place and removed the bandages. The edges of the wound were yellow, and the excessive swelling and redness had expanded. 

“Old Fobber had a wound like that on his arm. Had to get it cut off,” she said. 

Geralt growled. They both knew there’d be no such remedy for Jaskier.

Lilly leaned against the wall. “Tilda gave my mum a strong tea when my mum got worse and the pain too much. It put her into a sleep she never woke from. No more pain.” 

“Get out,” Geralt growled. The girl didn’t move. “Now!” 

Lilly fled from the room; he heard the downstairs door slam.

Geralt examined Jaskier’s wound again. He spread a generous portion of the new herbal salve over the entire infected area.

Lilly deserved an apology. She hadn’t been wrong to suggest ending Jaskier’s pain. This was why it was wrong to get attached. Pox, fever, plague, common accidents, brutality, and war; life was short and brutal. 

He should have left the bard behind as soon as he’d met him. 

Lilly returned on her own. She brought a sweet cake wrapped in cloth as an offering. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Geralt accepted the gift, and they ate it together.

Jaskier moaned in his sleep, and the fever continued to climb. When Jaskier woke, his eyes couldn't focus, and he coughed up blood when he tried to speak. 

All Geralt could do was sit and hold his hand. “I’m here.” 

The new tincture Geralt made stopped the infection from getting worse, but it didn’t get better, and all the while, Jaskier grew weaker. 

~~~

“It’s been over a week.” The magistrate puffed on his pipe and leaned back in his chair. “We assumed you’d fallen to the beast.” 

“Your monster is dead.” Geralt tossed a pouch of ekimmara fangs on the table. “I’ll take my pay.” 

The magistrate upended the bag and curled his lip in disgust as the teeth clattered onto the polished wood of his desk. “How do I know these are genuine? It could be from anything. I’m mindful of the deceits your kind play on decent folk.” 

Geralt’s patience wore thin, but losing his temper would do him no favours here, and he needed the coin. “False rumours. I’ll take you down to the catacombs to see the body if these don’t satisfy you as proof.” 

The man gulped. “No need. I’ll pay you what you’re owed. Three hundred crowns. That was the agreement. I don’t hold such amounts in my office,” he wrote out a slip of paper and handed it over. “Vivaldi’s bank. They’ll honour this voucher.” 

Geralt grabbed it, unimpressed with not being paid outright. But the voucher looked in order. He slammed the door behind him. 

Geralt's mood turned even more foul when he arrived at the Grove gate and found it locked and barred from within. He slammed his fist on the wood until a small slat slid open and a bloodshot eye peeked out. 

“Password.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Oh. It’s you, Witcher,” the voice on the other side quavered, and the door swung open. 

Geralt strode past the lookout and back to the dilapidated sick-house. What Lilly had said about doing the kind thing; even sleep held no relief for Jaskier anymore, Geralt knew the right thing to do. For anyone else, he’d have already done it.

But _Jaskier._ Fuck. 

He’d even mixed the poison the last time he’d gone to Tilda’s shop. It would be quick, and Jaskier would finally be at peace, but Geralt couldn’t do it.

Geralt put the vial away with his other witcher potions and sorted through them for the hundredth time, looking for something that didn’t exist. He’d sent letters to Nenneke. There wasn’t enough time.

His eyes strayed to the swallow potion. It had brought Geralt back from the brink more times than he liked to admit.

But it was toxic. A cure for Witchers was poison to humans. He’d seen it used once by a gang of misguided brigands who thought he’d been holding back treatment for their comrades. The screams of those who consumed it still resonated in his memory.

 _Those who consumed it._

But what if he used it topically? Mixed it in with the salve? 

Lilly lay sleeping, curled up in the corner. She mumbled in her sleep, something about sweetcakes and honey.

Jaskier stirred, his breaths shallow. 

“It’s just me. I’m changing your bandage,” Geralt said. Sometimes his voice helped soothe, sometimes Jaskier seemed beyond hearing or understanding. 

This time, Jaskier opened his eyes.

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier licked his lips. He tried to cough, but the movement worsened the wounds in his side, and he moaned as he tried to clear his throat. Geralt held up a cup of water and helped him take small sips. Jaskier’s breath quickened. He tried to move, but Geralt already had a hand on his chest to hold him in place. 

“Save your strength.” 

Jaskier shook his head. He licked his lips and mouthed several words — _Am I dying_?

“You're too stubborn to die.” If only it were that easy.

Jaskier nodded in agreement. He brought his hand up and placed his fingers over Geralt’s. He squeezed his hand, and his lips moved, forming silent but familiar words, _Save me._

How many times had Geralt come to Jaskier’s rescue in the past? He always found the bard in some ridiculous situation; on the run from some noble woman’s husband or chased out of town for insulting a powerful nobleman. They’d been through so much together. And when the shit flew, and Geralt heard Jaskier shouting through the chaos _‘save me’_ , he’d always come through. 

Except for this time. 

“There’s something.” Geralt glanced at Lilly to ensure she remained asleep and wouldn’t overhear. “Swallow potion. If I add it to the salve,” Geralt explained. “It will kill the infection. But I don’t know how it will affect your blood. Jaskier, it may kill you.” 

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt brushed Jaskier’s hair away from his eyes. The fever still raged within him. “You don’t know what you’re asking. “It will hurt.” 

Jaskier’s gaze was steady, he was already hurting. Geralt scooped a glob of salve onto the palm of his hand and added a drop of _swallow_. He rubbed a small amount on the edge of the injury on Jaskier’s abdomen. The interaction between the swallow infused salve and Jaskier’s blood caused the wound to fizzle. 

Jaskier grasped Geralt’s hand. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. Then his fingers went limp. 

Geralt didn’t know what he’d been expecting. A miracle? If Melitele deigned to intervene, she’d have done it by now. He replaced the bandage. 

Jaskier’s breathing became more ragged overnight. The smell of death hung in the air. Geralt counted each breath, aware that each may be Jaskier’s last. The bard could go on for hours about the splendour of Oxenfurt. He’d approve of being buried there. 

The stink of infection clung to everything. Lilly watched Geralt change the bandages that morning. He inspected the wound as he always did. 

The swelling was down. The area he’d spread the swallow-infused salve on had healed into a scar. Even the mottled purplish bruises from the surrounding infection had all but disappeared. 

Lilly stroked her finger over the scar tissue. “How?”

“Potion,” Geralt explained. “I can save him.” It was no use hiding it from the girl now. He tripped over her in his haste to cross the room. He made the same mix as the day before.

“Why didn’t you use this earlier?” Lilia asked.

Geralt paused. “It’s poisonous to humans. The risk was too great.”

She edged back to give Geralt room to work.

If he didn’t do this now, there wouldn’t be another chance. Geralt spread the infused salve over the infected area on Jaskier’s side. Rather than another small test area, he spread it over the entire wound.

Jaskier writhed at the contact. The salve sizzled, a smoky white film rose from the wound. Jaskier’s heart raced. 

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand. Lilly chewed her fingernails.

Jaskier’s mouth opened in a silent scream as his back arched off the bed. Geralt gathered Jaskier into his arms as he seized. 

Lilly looked up at Geralt, face ashen. “Is he dying?”

He couldn’t look her in the eye. 

The convulsions continued. If Geralt were kind, he’d end Jaskier’s suffering now. When Jaskier stilled, Geralt didn’t know if the shock of the salve was easing or if Jaskier was too weak to continue. Jaskier lay unconscious and pale, but alive.

Lilia stayed, though she sat in the far corner, cheeks wet with tears.

“Jaskier, can you hear me?” Geralt whispered as he lay his hand on Jaskier’s forehead. His skin felt cold to the touch. There was no more need for bandages; the wound had knit together in pale webbed scars.

But at what cost? A day passed. Jaskier didn’t stir. Lilly tended to him. 

“How long will he sleep?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt waited by Jaskier’s side, and he was there when Jaskier finally opened his eyes. Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s hand, but his fingers remained lax and unresponsive. 

It was exhaustion. Jaskier needed more rest. Healing so quickly took an extreme toll on the body. Geralt knew firsthand how exhausting it was to recover from a significant injury.

Jaskier remained in an insensible state for three days. And then one morning, his eyes focused. 

Geralt crouched at his side, brimming with hope as Jaskier’s looked his way. “Jaskier?” 

Jaskier held his gaze.

Geralt grabbed the bard in his arms and held him close. “You’ll be alright.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier wheezed.

Geralt didn’t realize he could be more relieved than he already was, but hearing Jaskier’s voice, raspy and quiet as it was, proved him wrong. “You’re still waking up.” Geralt promised and lay Jaskier back down on the bed.

Jaskier glanced at Lilia. She offered an awkward smile.

“This is Lilly,” Geralt introduced the girl. “She’s been helping me take care of you.”

“Lilly,” he repeated, hoarse and breathy. 

The day after, Jaskier regained enough strength to sit up. He pointed at the dice Lilly had been playing with on the floor by his bedside.

“You want the dice?” Lilly asked.

Jaskier nodded and grinned when she placed them on his palm. For the next hour, they played together until Jaskier started rubbing at his temples in discomfort. He coughed and looked at Geralt in distress. “Where are we?” 

Geralt set a hand on his shoulder. “Lay down, you need more rest.”

The next time Jaskier woke, he pointed at his bags and mimed holding a hand of cards. Geralt passed him his deck of Gwent. Jaskier sorted through his extras and gave them to Lilly. And thus, they sat together on the bed and played.

“My brother is a soldier sometimes. He’s got a troop and they call themselves the Razors.”

“Sounds more like bandits than soldiers,” Geralt noted. 

“He’s got a halbeard. Soldiers have halbeards.”

“Halberd,” Jaskier corrected in a whisper. 

Lilly rolled her eyes.

Geralt watched with bemusement, finding it interesting to see Jaskier at the mercy of the little chatterbox. Served him right for the years of endless prattle he’d put Geralt through. He hoped those days would return soon. 

Geralt intervened when Jaskier’s attention drifted. “Lilly, get us some fruit from the market, apples and whatever else you find that’s fresh.” Geralt tossed her a few coins. She caught the money quick as a cat and rushed out the door. 

“Does your head hurt?” Geralt asked. 

He gripped Geralt’s hand. “Help me, Geralt,” he whispered.

If only Geralt knew how. He wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’ve got you. We’re in Novigrad.” 

Jaskier whimpered and pressed his hands against his eyes. “It hurts.”

He rubbed his eyes and hunched forward as he suffered through the pain. Geralt combed his fingers through Jaskier’s hair as Jaskier pressed up against him, his head on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Have you ever seen a rock troll?” Geralt asked. “No? They’re big and stupid, but not evil. I don’t hunt them unless they’re an active threat. They’re dense, but with a little patience, we can reason with them. There’s a family of trolls that live south of Kaer Morhen. We used to throw rocks at them as kids. They thought it was a game and threw rocks back. Boulders, more like. One time…” He droned on, telling Jaskier stories about the stupid things he and other boys had gotten into.

“Can I meet them?” Jaskier whispered.

“Yes, one day.” Geralt hummed. “I think my brother, Eskel, will like you.”

Lilly returned with a basket of apples and pears. Geralt helped Jaskier lay down.

“I’m going out.” He told Lilly. There were preparations to make. Jaskier needed a better place to recover. Geralt crouched at Jaskier’s side and placed his hand on his arm.

“I won’t be long,” Geralt told Jaskier. He waited a moment for a response.

Jaskier’s eyes were already closed, sleeping soundly.

Lilly sat on the floor beside the bed. “Don’t worry, Geralt, I’ll take good care of him.”


	17. Leaving Novigrad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to move on.

“I told you to keep the bastard locked up. Not welcome him into your employ,” Geralt shouted over the din of the crowded brothel. 

Katja faced the witcher and stood her ground, hands on hips, chin up. “What am I to do, turn my root cellar into a prison?” 

“Yes.” Geralt answered. 

Katja waved her arms in frustration. “How was I to know how long you’d be? All I got from you was that garbled message from the street rat you sent.” 

Patrons sang along with the performer on stage, belting out a bawdy tune while strumming a lute. The notes rang out in perfect tune.

“Fuck.” Geralt shoved his way onto the stage and grabbed the lute, _Jaskier’s lute_ , away from Gregor. Gregor placed his hand over his heart as his eyes bulged. _For fuck’s sake._ Geralt gripped the man by the collar and hauled him forward. 

The crowd booed. Geralt paused a moment to look out over the disgruntled faces. “Intermission. Go buy more ale.” Then dragged the man off to the kitchen. 

Katja followed. “I’ve got a business to run. You can’t just—” 

Geralt dragged Gregor into the kitchen and shoved him in the corner. Pots and pans clattered as the man flailed to catch his balance.

“Not back in the cellar, please, Witcher!” Gregor sputtered. He raised his arms over his head defensively. 

“You left Jaskier to drown.” 

“I didn’t know. Mistress Katja told me Julian survived. Please don’t kill me!” 

Geralt lunged for Gregor’s neck. 

“It wasn’t me! I didn’t hurt him. Valdo did. How is he? Is Julian alright?” 

“He’ll be fine.” 

“I had to hide,” Gregor continued pleading. “If Valdo’s men had seen me, they’d have killed me too!” He gasped for air as Geralt let him go. “May I see him?”

Geralt clenched his jaw and turned back to Katja. “Put him back in the cellar. Do not let him out again.” 

“I’m not a jailor.” 

She was right. Geralt grabbed the lute. He wouldn’t kill Gregor, but he wasn’t going to allow the louse anywhere near Jaskier. He turned his back on them both and headed for the stairs.

Katja followed. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m taking Jaskier somewhere safe.” Their things were packed and stored in the supply closet on the second floor. Bags slung over his shoulder, Geralt whistled for Nyx and walked out. 

~~~

When Geralt arrived back at Tilda’s room, Jaskier was alone. He sat on the edge of the bed, shirt hiked up on his left side, his fingers trailing over the bumpy web of scars. He startled when Geralt cleared his throat and shoved the clothing down to cover the disfigurement. 

Nyx pushed past Geralt’s legs and leaped on the bed, licking Jaskier’s face and wiggling. 

Jaskier hugged her, rubbing his hands along her head and back. Nyx settled and rolled over as Jaskier continued stroking her fur. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said and set the lute and travel bags against the wall. Jaskier looked over when Geralt called his name. 

“I brought your lute.” Geralt motioned to the corner where he’d put their things. 

Jaskier’s gaze locked onto the instrument, eyes bright and glossy. He crossed the room in three steps and knelt, fingers clumsy as he worked to open the clasp. Jaskier lifted the lute into his arms and ran his fingertips over the frets. Flicking his thumb over the taut strings brought forth a discordant twang.

“You want to play for a while?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier sat on the floor, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he placed his fingers. He rolled his shoulders as he tried to find a comfortable position. 

“What’s wrong?”

“My shoulder,” Jaskier croaked. He made a fist with his right hand and grimaced as he attempted to rotate his arm.

Geralt crouched at his side and ran his hands along Jaskier’s shoulder joint and scowled. The bones were out of place. He’d been so intent on the infection on Jaskier’s side he thought to look further. “It feels out of place. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Jaskier scraped his left hand through his hair and cleared his throat. “There’s so much. Doesn’t hurt anymore, just hard to move.” 

“How did it happen?”

“Pulled,” he wheezed, “Up and—” he stopped and coughed. Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s back.

“Slow down,” Geralt soothed. “Marx did this to you?”

Jaskier nodded. 

Geralt add that to his list of injuries he planned to inflict on Valdo Marx before ending his life. “You’ve healed, but the joint didn’t set right. I can help, but it will hurt.”

Jaskier rested his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder. “Do it.”

Geralt helped Jaskier to his feet and stood to the side. He grasped Jskier’s arm at the elbow. “Inhale. Let your breath out slowly.” He waited until he felt Jaskier relax and pulled.

Jaskier yelped and Geralt caught him around the waist to keep him on his feet.

“You’re alright. We’re done.”

Jaskier stifled a sob and turned against Geralt’s chest.

Geralt held Jaskier in a snug embrace until footsteps running up the stairs broke the silence. Jaskier pulled away and returned to the bed to sit beside the dog. He stared at a spot across the room as Nyx whined and rested her chin on Jaskier’s lap. 

Lilly’s face lit up as she entered the room. “You have a dog?” She crouched close to the mutt and scratch her ears.

“You were supposed to be watching Jaskier.” 

Lilly bit her lip. “My brother called for me. I only stepped out for a moment. And I asked. Jaskier said it was alright.”

“I was fine, Geralt,” Jaskier assured him.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” Geralt said.

Lilly held still, attentive to Geralt’s every more, “We?”

“Me and Jaskier.” Geralt corrected.

She lifted her chin as her eyes flicked away and back again, her posture stiff. “Where to?”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier. “I know a place.” 

She paled and reached over to grip Jaskier’s hand. “I won’t let you,” Lilly said fiercely. “I heard what witchers do when they get feeble. They go into the woods and let the monsters get them. Let me have him instead. I’ll take care of him like how I took care of my mum.”

“You think I’m going to feed Jaskier to a wyvern?”

“Are you?” Lilly asked, eyes wide with alarm.

“No.” He turned to Jaskier and repeated, “I’m not feeding you to a wyvern.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

Geralt changed the subject. “What did your brother want of you?”

Lilly shrugged. “He’s drunk. It’s nothing.”

“Go.” Geralt picked a handful of coins from his pouch. “We don’t need you anymore.”

The girl blinked and swallowed thickly. She stared down at the coin in her hand. “Take me with you. I’m strong. I can carry stuff.”

“No.” 

“Can I come back tonight?” she asked, hesitating at the door.

Jaskier motioned her to come closer. He hugged her with his left arm. “My bag in the corner, bring me the pouch,” he instructed. She did, and he shook some extra coins onto her palm. “Buy cakes and come back for supper.” 

She stared at the coins and nodded. 

Geralt waved her off, and she gave the dog one more pat before leaving.

Jaskier crossed his arms after the girl left.

“What?”

One raised eyebrow.

Geralt echoed the expression. “Spit it out.”

Jaskier glared. “You’re a grouch,” he rasped. “She wants to come with us.”

“You already have a dog. You don’t need a kid, too. Come here and let me wrap your shoulder. It’s going to take a while to heal properly.”

Jaskier stood up and crossed the room, not to Geralt, but to Tilda’s shelf. He held his right arm close against his body and used his left to poke at the trinkets. He shook the snowglobe and inspected a small music box. The movements were abrupt, clumsy, but Geralt knew the mannerisms well. Geralt hadn’t meant to piss Jaskier off. But fine, noted. Geralt wasn’t in the wrong, and he would not apologize for stating the obvious. 

He set the wrapping aside to tend to Jaskier’s shoulder later and busied himself with redistributing their belongings through their travel bags. Most of it would get strapped to Roach’s saddle.

Jaskier finally got tired of ignoring him and turned. “Where?” He demanded. 

Geralt looked up, satisfied not to be the first to break. He always outlasted Jaskier’s dramatic tactics. “Where, what?” 

Jaskier looked up at the ceiling as though imploring a divine power for strength. “You said, ‘ _I know a place.’”_ He nearly lifted his right arm to point, winced and instead pointed at Geralt with his left.

Geralt narrowed his eyes and stood up. “How’s your shoulder?” 

“Don’t deflect.” Jaskier waved Geralt’s concern aside and stuck his finger in his face again. “Where are you taking me?” 

Geralt resisted the urge to push Jaskier’s hand away. Patience was a virtue. If he could converse with imbecilic rock trolls, he could communicate with an angry bard. “Don’t listen to the girl. I’m not abandoning you in the woods.”

“Ha! Yes, because that’s my concern.” Jaskier coughed to the side. “I know you aren’t feeding me to a hungry wyvern, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t planning on leaving me behind. Geralt. Why aren’t you telling me?” Jaskier’s voice faded to practically a whisper.

“Do you remember Nenneke?” 

“I don’t have amnesia.” Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunched. “And Nenneke hates me.” 

“She has both collections of your published poetry in her library.” 

“She does?” Jaskier asked with new interest but shook off the distraction. “I don’t need your priestess. I’m _not_ feeble.”

“Lilly said that, not me.” 

“You didn’t disagree.” Jaskier turned on him, panting in his frustration, the breaths turning to coughs until he was bent double. Geralt reached out a hand, but Jaskier slapped it away. “Fuck.” Jaskier rubbed at his eyebrow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“Impressive vocabulary. Lilly’s a kid; it doesn’t matter what she says. We’re going to the Temple because you need somewhere safe to recuperate.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw but refrained from saying more. Geralt reached for him again and led him back to the bed. 

“Let me wrap your shoulder. It will heal faster.” Geralt picked up the wrapping and helped Jaskier off with his shirt. “It’s a common injury, happens a lot in training.” He wound the bandages around Jaskier’s shoulder, tied the end around his arm, then rested his hand between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. Jaskier leaned into Geralt’s touch as he rubbed his back. “Better?”

Jaskier lay down beside Nyx and buried his face in her fur.

Geralt carded his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Does your head hurt again?” 

Jaskier nodded. He didn’t look up. 

“The temple in Ellander boasts the most celebrated healers in the Northern Kingdoms and the best selection of herbal gardens.”

“A temple full of priestesses doesn’t sound so bad.” 

“And it doesn’t reek of fish and vomit. Do you want to sleep?”

“Talk to me?” 

And so, Geralt lay down and told him about a hunt he’d gone on with Eskel. It was after their trail of grasses, but before setting out on the Path. Jaskier listened, and the stress lines along his forehead smoothed out.

They waited for Lilly to visit one last time to say goodbye, but the girl did not return. 

~~~

The only item of their gear Geralt asked Jaskier to carry was the lute. “Warn me before you get tired.” 

Jaskier adjusted the strap on his left shoulder. He trailed behind, with Nyx close to his heels, distracted by everything they passed. His gaze roamed toward the merchants calling for attention to buy their wares. He flinched as a woman to the right screamed at her children to quit playing in the horse shit. A guard in metal armour sauntered down the middle of the lane, and Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s arm to pull him out of the way just in time. 

“Watch where you’re going.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier pointed in the opposite direction than the stables. “I need—” he cleared his throat and tried again, forcing the sounds to come out. “The townhouse.” 

“What townhouse?” Geralt asked. It wasn’t far from here to the stables. “I’ll drop our stuff off first, then we’ll go.” 

Jaskier led him through Novigrad. Geralt watched him for fatigue and frequently stopped to allow Jaskier time to sit on a bench or lean against a wall to rest. Geralt almost steered Jaskier away from the bridge — the chest still lay broken on the bank — and tensed as Jaskier paused at the rail and looked down at the water. 

“Alight?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier placed his hand over his. “Let’s go. It’s not far.” They continued on and Jaskier did not look back.

Jaskier mounted the steps of an elegant three-story townhouse and knocked. No response. He checked the door handle. Locked. He picked at the hem of his doublet and pulled out a thin rod. 

Several pedestrians on the street quickened their steps as they passed. Geralt turned and stood to block the view of Jaskier picking the lock when an old man stopped to stare. 

Jaskier tugged on his arm, now standing in front of an open door. Geralt followed him inside. 

“Marx’s townhouse,” Jaskier explained. He circled around a large oak table and dashed for the room on the left. He opened another door. Geralt trailed behind into a study lined with bookshelves. Jaskier crouched behind the desk and grunted as he sat back up. “Could you?”

Geralt crouched beside him. “What do you need?”

“In there. Pry the bottom board off.” 

Geralt used his dagger’s edge to remove the wood at the base of the bookshelf, tossed the piece aside, and reached in with a sweeping motion. He scooped out a worn-looking journal and a gold pendant. “This everything?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, he held out his hand, and Geralt passed him the items. He wrapped the pendant in a handkerchief and placed it into a woven pocket within his doublet.

The dog barked outside, and Jaskier peeked out the front window. 

“Shit.” Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s hand as heavy footsteps entered the house. 

“What business do you have in this residence?” The guard wore the silver plate and red helmet of the temple guard. 

Geralt stepped forward, hand forward and ready to dispel the situation by casting _axii_ , but Jaskier jumped in front. “Lord Dawnhaven,” he croaked and cleared his throat. “Has requested a volume of his favourite poetry for his evening respite.” He held out the leather-bound book for the guard to see. 

“An’ who’re you?” 

Jaskier bowed. “I am his Lord’s chamberlain, at your service.”

“An’ what’re you? A witcher? What’s a chamberlain got a witcher for?”

Jaskier stepped closer to the guard. The guard’s grip on his sword tightened. Geralt clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to grab Jaskier and shove him to safety. 

But Jaskier stopped before the guard drew the weapon. “A sensitive matter,” he whispered conspiratorially. “May I trust your discretion?”

“Course, sir.”

“A curse has fallen on the building.”

“I thought you were here for that book in your hand.” The guard’s face scrunched up in suspicion.

“I am. Lord Dawnhaven refuses to take a step into this cursed building until he knows it’s safe. The witcher is to ensure my safety, so I too, do not fall to misfortune.”

“What’s the curse?” 

Jaskier glanced both ways as though fearing eavesdroppers. “Impotence, sir. A certain lack of ability befalls those who linger too long. I suggest we be off as soon as we can.” 

The guard shuffled his feet. “The Lord should look to the aid of the venerable Priests of the Eternal Fire to cleanse the magics from his home, not some mutant.”

Jaskier blinked and bit his lip. “I agree wholeheartedly, but Lord Dawnhaven was loath to subject the esteemed clergy to such risk.” Jaskier nodded along. “Now, let’s be off. Please?” 

The guard had already backed toward the door. Jaskier and Geralt followed close behind. 

Nyx ran to Jaskier’s side as soon as he exited the building. Jaskier bowed again to the guard and imperiously waved at Geralt to follow him. He waited until they were around the corner before slumping against the nearest wall.

Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder as Jaskier coughed. “You did good.” 

Jaskier nodded and held the book up. “Good thing he didn’t look too close.” He took deep breaths as the coughing eased. Nyx sniffed the cover. 

“How’s your throat?” 

“Fine,” Jaskier whispered, the lie blatant by how croaky his voice had become.

“Do you need to rest?” Geralt asked. 

“No.” Jaskier clutched Geralt’s sleeve and kept his eyes fixed to the ground. “I’m fine.” 

He didn’t sound fine, but Geralt didn’t challenge him. They retraced their steps back toward the bits, then to the stable. 

“I’ll wait here.” Jaskier slid down the wall until he sat on the dusty ground. Geralt hesitated, but Jaskier waved him off, insisting yet again, he was fine. Nyx stayed by Jaskier’s side, and Geralt felt confident the animal would raise a ruckus if anyone tried messing with her human. 

As soon as Roach sensed Geralt's presence, she stomped her hoof and whinnied. Geralt paid the stable fee, not bothering to haggle. He didn't want to leave Jaskier on the street longer than necessary. 

But, Jaskier wasn’t alone. Lilly sat beside him, a sack at her side. She hopped to her feet when she saw Geralt. “Take me with you.” 

“No.” 

“I used all the coin I earned to buy supplies. See? I’ll follow on my own if you don’t take me with you. You can’t stop me.” 

That was true. He didn’t have to help either. Geralt adjusted their travel bags and ignored the girl. He looked at Jaskier. “Ready?” 

Jaskier accepted Geralt’s hand to stand up. Nyx was licking Lilly’s hand. 

“We’re not leaving her behind,” Jaskier said. 

It was no mystery what kind of future awaited the Lilly if she remained in Novigrad. Geralt turned to her. “No whining. And if I tell you to do something, don’t argue.” 

Jaskier snorted and Geralt recalled saying something similar to him when they’d started travelling together. 

“And you” — Geralt turned to Jaskier — “save your energy for when you need it. Up you get.” Geralt helped him up into the saddle.

Geralt held the reins. They exited through the closest gate out of the walled city, and as soon as the breeze hit them, Geralt breathed in the fresh air with relief.


	18. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course he was. He was fine. The words of his erstwhile Professor Tucktoes came to mind. Physical reality is a manifestation of one’s mental fortitude. He could get up, get through this, keep walking. Any time now. If he were strong enough, he’d be able to.

Geralt led Roach off the path at midday toward a shallow stream. This would do. Off the trail, away from the city, the noise, and the smells.

Lilly flung herself to the ground and lay in the grass. “I’m dead.” 

“The dead don’t complain.”

“I’m not complaining.” 

“We’ve only been walking a few hours.” So much for the girl not whining. Jaskier dismounted Roach on unsteady feet, took three steps toward the nearest bush, and vomited. 

Geralt no sooner tossed their bedrolls on the ground than Jaskier stumbled over and collapsed in much the same way Lilly had. Great, now he had two of them. Three; Nyx joined in, squirming under Jaskier’s arm to shove her nose in his armpit.

Unlike his companions, Geralt didn’t complain. The camp wouldn't get prepared on its own. 

Jaskier sat up after a while and waved Lilly closer. 

She hurried over. “Do you need help with something, Master Jaskier?” 

Jaskier pointed at her feet and flicked at her boots. Geralt stopped brushing Roach when Jaskier cleared his throat. “Take the boots off.” It was the first time Jaskier had talked since Lilly joined them at the stables. 

Lilly pulled them off. Her toes stuck out of her knit socks. Jaskier’s eyes crinkled in a frown as he rolled the threadbare socks off the girl’s feet. “Geralt.”

Geralt crouched at Jaskier’s side. Lilly’s feet were rough and calloused from running barefoot in Novigrad for most of her life, but new blisters had formed around her toes and heel. “New boots?”

“There’s nothing wrong with them! I got ‘em off the rubbish pile behind the cobbler last night. Not stealing to take what no one else wants no more.”

Jaskier wiggled his fingers at Geralt. “Salve?” 

Geralt dug the ointment out of his bag and placed it in Jaskier’s hand. Lilly’s eyes went wide, and she started pulling away. “Will it hurt?” 

“Not as much as those blisters.” Jaskier rubbed the ointment on her foot, holding her ankle to keep her from kicking him as she wriggled. 

“It tickles.” 

“There. Better?” 

She grabbed her foot and twisted it to look under, contorting into a pretzel as she did. “Now I’m slimy.”

“Stay put until it dries,” Geralt ordered. She rolled onto her back and waved her feet in the air. “You shouldn’t coddle the girl,” Geralt said to Jaskier. 

Jaskier grinned and leaned back on his elbows. “Don’t give me that look. You did the same for me when we started travelling together.” 

Geralt snorted. “At no time did I ever rub your feet.” 

“So, you tossed the jar at my head, same difference. The sentiment was there.” He coughed to the side. 

“He’s sweet on you,” Lilly whispered to Jaskier. Jaskier pushed her over, and Nyx stole the opportunity to lick her face. She squealed as a wrestling match ensued.

Jaskier moved away to avoid getting drawn in, and Geralt handed him some water. “You’re good?” 

Jaskier took a sip and nodded. 

“You’ve been quiet.” 

“Can’t stand the sound of it.” 

“I miss listening to you prattle.” 

“Do you now? Never thought I’d hear that. How can you want to hear this wreck of a voice?”

“It’s not the voice I miss. It’s you.”

“I’m a bard. I am my voice.” 

Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Go find some sticks. I’ll finish taking care of Roach, and we’ll start the fire.” 

In the meantime, Nyx had stolen one of Lilly’s socks and was running around the clearing as she chased after her in bare feet.

They went about their separate tasks, a familiar routine, safe. It didn’t take long to finish setting camp, and the two of them settled around the fire while Lilly continued playing with Nyx. 

“How does your throat feel?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier gave him a thumbs down.

Geralt passed him a cup of tea he brewed over the fire. “Marshmallow root. Tilda said it would help.” 

Jaskier sniffed at it and took a swallow. “Oh, that’s nice.” 

Geralt pulled out his old copy of the Bestiary, and when next he looked up, Jaskier lay on his side, tension lines drawn on his forehead as he rubbed at his temples. 

“Another headache?” 

“Yes.” 

“How often?” 

“When I’m tired.” 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier shrugged. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said.

This time Jaskier looked up, met his eye. 

Now that he’d started, Geralt figured he might as well continue. “I let my desperation get the best of me. I’d have done anything to save your life, and now you’re the one to suffer for it.” 

Jaskier looked away from Geralt and turned to watch Lilly chase after Nyx in the clearing. The innocent play helped distract him from the darker thoughts of his ruined voice, and the pounding in his head and the confusion that came with it. Despite how tired he felt, the afternoon passed serenely. Geralt had been right, it did feel good to leave the dismal squalor of Putrid Grove in Novigrad. 

Lilly came back to join them, and Nyx pushed against her side until she pet her. 

Geralt nudged Jaskier’s arm. “Do you want to play?”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the lute case as though it might contain spiders.

Geralt brought the case. Jaskier pulled out the instrument, he tested the hold. His shoulder was still sore, but at least he could move it properly again. He plucked a few random notes and considered which song to play. He was rusty, that’s all. He tried again with another song. The notes he played just fine, but when he thought about the lyrics he felt a clenching within his chest, and he stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

He laid the lute across his legs. He stared up at the first sparkle of stars in the sky. “The words won’t come.” Jaskier stared off into the distance. “Just as well. I can’t bear to hear myself squawk like a demented duck anyway.”

“You don’t squawk,” Lilly countered. “It’s more like a growl, like this,” she lowered her voice and made grunting noises. 

Geralt kicked her ankle. “Give it time, Jaskier. You’re still recovering.”

“No. This is more than voice strain. The poison burned my throat, Geralt.” Jaskier bit his lip and pressed a hand to his side, he could feel the scars through his tunic. “You healed my injuries, but the scars remain.” This was what he’d been trying so hard not to think about. 

“You can still play, can’t you?” Lilly asked. 

Jaskier sat in silence for a while, then picked his lute back up and started playing Toss a Coin. He raised his eyebrows at Geralt. 

“What?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier waved his hand in a rolling motion, “You know my songs. Sing for me.” 

“I don’t sing,” Geralt growled. 

“You do. You sing when you’re drunk. Remember that time in Cidaris?” The memory was fuzzy around the edges. Cidaris. A traveller’s camp by the harbour and the company of dwarves and their Mahakaman spirit. And a particular wager regarding the language of mermaids. They accused Geralt of pulling their beards about being fluent in the aquatic sing-song speech. “Ah, right. That time you made me vow never to speak of again. But still! You sing. I’ve heard you.” He plucked the chords again, and Geralt spoke the beginning lines. 

“Nope. Sing, not speak.” Jaskier paused and levelled a disapproving eye at his Witcher. “What you are doing is a distinct art form called spoken word, and it’s not how my songs are meant to be preformed.”

Geralt tried again.

Jaskier picked up the tune and hummed along. The words became clear in his mind as Geralt sang them. It was the most satisfying feeling, like the scent of flowers in the springtime. Like homemade stew at a comfortable tavern, and dry socks in the morning.

The song finished and Jaskier kept playing. “Again.”

Geralt cleared his throat—several times.

Jaskier replayed the introduction. 

“Yes, yes, fine.” The Witcher griped. “Start again.” 

Geralt waited for the proper cord and started. “When a humble bard graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia, Along came this song—” He glanced at Jaskier to see if he was doing it right.

Jaskier’s smile lit up the entire forest. Geralt continued, and Lilly joined in at the chorus.

“From when the White Wolf fought a silver-tongued devil, his army of elves at his hooves did they revel, they came after me with masterful deceit, broke down my lute and they kicked in my teeth...”

Geralt sang the last line, and Lilly took over, singing it again with Geralt’s help when she forgot the words.

It felt good watching them, but every time he tried to sing along, the words caught in his throat and refused to take form. 

“Maybe you’re scared,” Geralt said after Jaskier put away his lute.

“That’s ridiculous. Why would I be afraid of my songs?”

“Of not being able to sing them.” 

Or maybe not all that ridiculous. “I already know I can’t sing them, not in the way anyone would want to listen. What difference does that make when it comes to remembering the lyrics?” 

“I’ve seen it before. I once met a knight who forgot how to wield his sword after being injured in battle.”

“What happened to him?”

“He froze on the battlefield. My point is—”

“That you’re crap at telling uplifting stories.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, I get it. At least I won’t die as a result of my memory lapses. Pass me my notebook, please?”

Geralt reached over to their bags and pulled out Jaskier’s notebook. 

Jaskier opened it. He blinked, hoping the initial discomfort would pass after a moment. It didn’t.

“Don’t like what you see?” Geralt teased. 

“I can’t read it. It’s the letters. They make my head spin when I look at them.”

“Calm down. Think about something else.” Geralt moved to sit beside him. “It’s probably your shorthand. It makes my head hurt too. Remember that time you tried to teach it to me? It was during a snowstorm.” 

“The trail got snowed in,” Jaskier added. 

“Right.” 

“I was cold.” Jaskier closed his eyes and shivered, then, despite the heat of the day, he pulled the blanket off his bedroll and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Why were we in the mountains?” He looked up at the dark sky. 

“We were travelling toward Ard Carraigh.”

“In Kaedwen. On the way to a haunted castle.” Jaskier whispered. 

“A haunted castle?” Lilly asked. 

“Not really haunted. Not with ghosts, at least,” Jaskier answered. He went still and flinched at the shadows lurking at the edges of his vision. The dog whined, and a cold nose nudged at his hand.

“Jaskier?” Geralt called. Why did he sound so far away. “Jaskier, look at me.” 

Jaskier looked back to Geralt, but he’d lost the thread of what he was saying. Something about a castle, wasn’t it?

“Jaskier,” Geralt said louder. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier answered and shivered. He brought his hands over his eyes. “Shit. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing.” Geralt led him toward their bedrolls. “You’re tired. Get some rest.”

Jaskier lay down, the dog nestled up close against his side, and he heard Geralt telling Lilly to mind her own business and go to bed. It wasn’t long after that he fell to sleep. 

~~~

Morning came with a cool breeze and scattered clouds. Jaskier woke up refreshed, feeling better than he had in ages. Geralt had insisted he rest instead of help take down their small camp. Who was Jaskier to refuse such an order? Geralt had Lilly to help him. Jaskier took the opportunity to sit with his lute and plucked at the strings.

He didn’t feel tired, his limbs didn’t ache with fatigue. No headache, no shadows lurked on the edges of his vision. It was like waking up to sunshine after a week of persistent drizzle. He revelled in the clarity of thought.

“Sing for me, Geralt,” Jaskier pleaded yet again. Geralt only grunted in response. So, what if his tongue stuck on the thought of singing his own lyrics? If he never regained the vocal mastery he’d had in the past, he’d compose. His dearest friend Essi would not refuse a partnership. He’d find a way to move on, just like always. No need to sink into despair and lament what he’d lost. No, not at all. 

“Lilly, how about you,” He played a folk tune he was sure the girl would know and she sang along as she helped Geralt pack up Roach’s saddlebags. Not as satisfying as Geralt’s gravelly baritone, but sweet nonetheless. 

“Geralt, sing for me like you did last night,” Jaskier asked again when Lilly ran off to throw sticks with Nyx. A few strategically placed pathetic sounding coughs worked wonders to cajole Geralt into compliance. 

Geralt heaved a sigh. “What do you want me to sing?”

“How about, The Stars Above The Path?” Jaskier asked. He plucked at the strings, waiting for the tune to come to him as he slowly started playing. It was a slow song, romantic, and Geralt paused in his work to sit with Jaskier as he sang it. Lilly stopped and came to watch too, mouthing the words as she listened. 

Jaskier refrained from humming along. His throat already itched and burned. 

“Want me to put the lute on Roach’s saddle?” Geralt asked after the song was done. 

“Not yet,” Jaskier stood up, still strumming as he started walking. 

“You should ride.” 

Jaskier glared. “Ha, no. How do you expect me to regain my strength if all I do is sit?” His fingers didn’t skip a beat. Another few days of this and the callouses would toughen up. Jigs made the best walking songs. He winced as a lightning-quick stab of pain bloomed just above his eye. He rubbed at his forehead. “I need to write new songs. Have you ever performed on stage?” 

“Yes, every winter in Kaer Morhen. We all get up on stage and perform soliloquies of our summer hunts.” 

“Oh, I love it when your sarcasm shows. Careful, Geralt, one might get the impression you know what soliloquies are and ask you to perform one.” Jaskier snorted, and he slung the lute over his shoulder. “I can imagine it now. We should hire a painter to immortalize the scene. The artist who painted Novigrad’s skyline, she’d be down for it in exchange for a favour or two. What was her name?” 

“What painter?” 

“I know her.” Jaskier stared up at the clouds. He could see her face, hear her voice, why couldn't he remember her name? Where had he met her? Winter. Beside the ancient well. “In Oxenfurt. At the tavern. You’ve been there. The—” The words he wanted were just outside of his grasp. 

“At the Alchemy?” 

“Yes, there.” He paused long enough to take a sip of the leftover marshmallow tea Geralt had saved for him.

“Rest your voice.”

Yeah, too late for that. But Jaskier didn’t care. The headache turned his thoughts sluggish. If he kept talking, maybe he could plough through the confusion. “She was delightful, Geralt. I need to introduce you. Did I tell you she painted a scene from one of my songs?” Jaskier’s voice broke and became a whisper. He coughed to punish it back into compliance. He continued in a hoarse rasp. Better than nothing. “I wish she’d consulted me first. The details are off, and the griffin you fought, it looks like old meatloaf.” 

Nyx barked and rubbed against Jaskier’s leg. 

“Jaskier, slow down.” 

“No. Nope.” Jaskier ignored the wave of dizziness. “I’m fine. I feel good, Geralt. Another song? Or, better yet, Toss a Coin! I think I can even—I can—Oh.”

Jaskier blinked. He forgot what he was going to say. Nyx barked again and whined as she shoved her nose against his side. 

“Geralt? I think I’m—” Jaskier held his lute out toward Geralt. 

“Damn it, Jaskier.” 

“Not me,” Jaskier snapped as Geralt gripped his arm. “Save the lute.” He shoved the lute at Geralt as his knees buckled. Geralt ended up supporting him as Lilly rescued the instrument. Good enough.

So, maybe he shouldn’t have been so eager to prove how good he felt earlier. 

The ground looked more stable, and Jaskier sat down, head in hands. The dog licked his face, and he reached out to rub her neck. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispered, but an over-sized sponge had taken the place of his tongue, his mouth rivalled a desert for dryness, and a drum pounded from within his skull. 

“Is he going to be alright?” Lilly asked somewhere to Jaskier’s right.

Of course he was. He was fine. The words of his erstwhile Professor Tucktoes came to mind. Physical reality is a manifestation of one’s mental fortitude. He could get up, get through this, keep walking. Any time now. If he were strong enough, he’d be able to. 

Bollocks. 

“Up we get,” Geralt said. Jaskier grasped his hand, and a moment later, he was wrapped in Geralt’s sturdy arms. An oasis of stability in a sea of crashing waves. 

Jaskier loved Roach, he did, but he didn’t love being on her. Or any horse. Maybe if he found one that was slow and didn’t sway so much, he’d change his tune. 

Riding lessons had been a special hell as a child. He remembered getting lost in the fog, separated from the other students, unable to find anyone among the rolling hills. 

No. That wasn’t a genuine memory, was it? Was it a story he’d heard? 

A dog barking. A young girl’s voice spoke in hushed tones. A more resonant voice answered. And through it all the rolling, swaying, tottering unsteadiness of riding. 

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t safe here, he was being used by someone he thought cared about him. Come home, be safe with me. But the voice was far away, as much as it called to him, he didn’t know where to find it. 

A shadow lurked off in the distance, crept closer. Pulling. Jaskier struggled against it.

“Jaskier.” 

“ _Jaskier_!” 

Jaskier blinked and frowned. The fog dissolved into a clear blue sky. “I’m here.” 

Geralt’s arm was around his waist, helping him off Roach. Jaskier staggered, stomach roiling with nausea. 

“Come have something to eat,” Geralt coaxed.

He felt nauseous. Geralt helped him sit down, and Nyx curled up against his legs. 

“Are you back with me?” Geralt asked. 

“Did I leave?” 

“Take your time,” Geralt urged. 

Beside Geralt, Lilly crouched, her face damp with tears. “Why was he calling for Valdo?” she asked.

“Not now,” Geralt shushed her. 

Had something happened? _Take your time_ , Geralt had said. Jaskier didn’t like taking time. “The fog,” Jaskier answered. Had there been a question? He couldn't keep track. At the alarmed look Geralt cast his way, he continued. “I mean, there was fog this morning, wasn’t there? Something tried to pull me off Roach.” 

“You almost fell. I grabbed you.” 

“Oh. Do you have water? Or ale? There’s the most terrible taste—” And it hurt to swallow.

“You threw up. Again.” Geralt explained.

Jaskier drank from the water-skin Geralt passed him. Spat. And drank again. “Fuck, I hate feeling nauseous.” As if that was his only problem.

Geralt started unpacking their bedrolls and camping supplies.

“What time is it?”

“Mid-day.”

Too early to stop. Jaskier laid back in the dirt and closed his eyes. 

The next thing Jaskier knew, his head rested on a blanket rather than the hard ground. Geralt sat next to him, poking a stick in a fire. Steam rose from the kettle. The sun rested low on the horizon. Lilly lay curled up on a blanket on the other side of the fire.

“Any better?” Geralt asked. 

His head didn’t ache anymore. Jaskier thought about sitting up, but that was too much effort. Grit crusted his eyes. He listened to Nyx panting, to Roach snuffling in the grass, to the crunch of dirt beneath her hooves, the crackling of wood in the fire, and Lilly’s breaths as she slept.

“Do you remember the haunted castle?” Jaskier asked Geralt.

“What about it?”

“Tell me about it.”

“You were there,” Geralt answered, as though that was the end of the matter.

“Talk to me, please?”

The haunted castle hadn’t been one of the more exciting adventures, but it’d had its moments. Geralt passed the marshmallow root tea, and Jaskier greedily drank it down.

Despite the grumbling, Geralt started the story. It felt good to listen. Jaskier didn't even bother correcting Geralt on the parts he got wrong. 

The daughter of the lord, for example. Helena. Geralt assumed Jaskier had a thing with her. Well, they did, but not in the way Geralt thought. She’d dragged him off through a secret passage in the kitchen pantry to an old servant’s hallway. They went to her father’s library, where girls weren’t allowed to go. ‘Girls should focus on tapestry weaving and plucking harp strings, not filling their heads with the corruptive influences of books.’ 

‘Jaskier,’ Helena had said, ‘I want to know the world.’ And Jaskier had told her stories of Elven ruins and monster lairs. 

Geralt stopped talking. “Jaskier, are you still with me?”

There were no ghosts in that castle. Except that there were. There were ghosts everywhere if you looked close enough. Jaskier would like to be a ghost if it meant he could haunt Geralt. He’d follow Geralt forever, and he would never have to be lonely again. 

It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault that Helena boarded a boat to the Skellige Islands a year later. Her father disagreed. 

“Helena’s ship was lost at sea. Taken by pirates.” Jaskier said. 

Geralt turned back to him. “What ship?”

“The Winchelsea. The one Helena, Lord Amworth’s daughter, boarded to sail to Skellige. I looked it up.” 

Geralt tossed a fresh stick on the fire. “I wasn’t sure you were still listening.”

“I encouraged her to follow her dreams.” He told Geralt about the library and the stories he told Helena about all the places they’d been. He continued talking despite the ache in his throat, despite how much he hated hearing his ruined voice. The sun set, and darkness settled over their little camp. 

Geralt passed him a cup of herbal water, and Jaskier sat up. The only light now came from their fire. “I don’t mean to keep getting lost,” Jaskier confessed. 

“It’ll take—”

“Time. I know.” Jaskier picked up a twig and drew circles in the dirt. How long would it take for Geralt to tire of waiting? “We haven’t talked about Novigrad.” 

“Do you want to?” 

Jaskier looked back toward the fire. “Want is a strong word.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Yes.” It didn’t matter how much it hurt to talk. Geralt passed him the marshmallow root tea again, and Jaskier took another sip to help ease the soreness. He started his tale with his conversation with Katja, how he’d decided not to seek revenge. “I wanted to wait for you.” He told Geralt about Gregor and Phelippe at the Golden Sturgeon, the abduction as he was about to toss the poison in the Pontar, and Valdo’s discovery of the poison. Jaskier stopped there. 

Geralt passed him a cup of tea. Jaskier drank, and the warm liquid soothed his throat. 

“There’s more. The pendant we retrieved is enchanted. Marx used it on me. Used it to influence my thoughts.”

“Are you still affected?” Geralt asked. 

“I don’t think so.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I hoped you could destroy it.”

“I’ll see what I can do at the Temple in Ellander.” Geralt took a drink of dwarven spirit straight from the bottle. “Get some sleep.”

“I’ll play my lute instead. Yes, yes, I’ll take it easy.” Jaskier got up and fetched his case. He plucked at the strings as he walked back. “Fishmonger’s Daughter, think you can sing it?”

Geralt did. 

Lilly woke to the music and sat up. Jaskier saw her grin as she recognized the tune, and she started singing with loud enthusiasm. Geralt increased his tone to match.

“Oh, fishmonger, come fetch your lovely daughter...” 

They sang the song through, and Jaskier joined in on the second round. He hoped Geralt would still sing with him in the evening after he recovered. _If I recover_ , he thought. After the song he put the lute away and laid down. 

Tomorrow would be better. 


	19. Maudlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In quiet moments Jaskier still felt the influence squirming around in the corners of his mind.

It stormed. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Jaskier trudged through the mud, a wool cloak wrapped around his shoulders for warmth. Lilly rode Roach, huddled under Geralt's cloak, and Geralt walked unprotected in the downpour.

The pounding of the rain prevented conversation. Jaskier stumbled in a puddle and Geralt caught his arm before he could fall.

Jaskier hated travelling in the rain, but it wasn't anything new. It would have been preferable to find an old shack or barn to hole up in until the weather improved, but that wasn't their luck. Even Nyx looked miserable. The clouds moved on and the sun came out around midday. The road remained a mess, and they were all thankful to find a small hilltop clearing that looked relatively sun-dried to stop for a rest and snack.

Jaskier spied Geralt observing him and rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“As if you don’t do the same.”

Neither could deny it. Jaskier pulled his notebook out of Roach’s saddlebag. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.” He tried holding the book at arm’s length and then up close. “It’s like looking at something through a wine glass.”

“What about far away?”

Jaskier looked up and squinted. “I don’t need to see anything far away.” He threw the book off into the grass in frustration.

“Lilly, go collect some kindling for a fire,” Geralt told the girl.

“But everything's wet—”

“Now.”

She stomped her foot and strode away.

Geralt sat still, gaze turned away. “Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Jaskier, what I did—”

“Is the only reason I’m still alive. Drop me off at your stupid temple. Do what you need to do. But don’t regret saving my life.”

“I don’t,” Geralt said. “And that’s the worst part. I don’t regret what I’ve done to you, and I should. I knew the consequences.”

Jaskier’s shoulders sagged. “As did I. I wanted you to save me, Geralt.” He looked up at the dark clouds receding in the east. “Vocal issues aside, am I different? Did it change me? Is that why you’re so bent on flagellating yourself with guilt?”

“No.” Geralt answered without hesitation. “It was bad, Jaskier. I thought I’d killed you.”

“I’m grateful you took the risk.” Jaskier picked up the notebook he’d flung, glad it hadn’t landed in the muck, and sat down on a rock to thumb through the pages again. “Will you read it to me if this doesn’t get better?”

“I wasn’t any good at learning your shorthand.”

Lilly stomped back and threw an armful of damp sticks at Geralt’s feet. “Is that enough?”

“It’ll do.” Geralt turned away and flicked his fingers in _igni_ to start the fire.

Jaskier drank the tea Geralt brewed, ate the jerky and stale bread Lilly brought him, and tried not to think about where he’d go next. He’d never put much effort into planning the future. What need was there to worry when you followed a witcher in the summer, and found a patron with a warm bed to share in the winter? But now?

Patrons weren’t interested in charity. No position waited at Oxenfurt for a bard who couldn’t read his own notes. But, what use was there in dwelling on it? The hollow, sick, feeling remained in his gut, but he forced a smile and stood up. Jaskier packed his notebook back into the bag. “Shall we carry on? There’s still plenty of daylight left for travel.”

They walked a couple more hours before Jaskier slowed. “Geralt.” The Witcher stopped. Jaskier didn’t want to say it. He hated saying it. “I’m tired.”

“How bad?”

“Not bad. Yet. But.” Jaskier looked away.

Geralt led Roach off the road. Jaskier trudged along behind. They stopped in a small clearing, and he sat down. Geralt made camp, removed their sleeping mats, and spread them out. “Lilly will watch over you. I won’t be far.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jaskier should have been collecting dry sticks for firewood. Or taking care of Roach. Or doing anything other than being babysat by a child. Geralt didn’t even ask for his help anymore.

Being idle was one thing, useless was another. Jaskier closed his eyes. No wonder Geralt wanted to get rid of him. How many more days until they reached the Temple?

Jaskier fell asleep with his hand wrapped in Nyx’s fur, and when he woke and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the sky was dark. Lilly and Geralt stopped talking when they saw he’d woken up. Geralt leaned toward the fire, picked up the pot, and emptied the contents onto a plate. “Tried to keep it warm for you.”

Shame washed over Jaskier for having slept through all the work, but he took the food.

“I put your lute beside you. If you want.” Geralt gestured to the left.

The sick feeling in Jaskier's gut only grew stronger. This journey was going to be their last.

Marx did this to him. Marx’s enchantment twisting his thoughts. In quiet moments he still felt the influence squirming around in the corners of his mind. If they hadn’t gotten the pendant away, Jaskier would still be at the troubadour’s side. Marx hadn’t been wrong about everything, though. Now that Jaskier had outlived his usefulness, Geralt had no reason to keep him around. That was how the world worked. Jaskier couldn't begrudge Geralt for that. You’re only worth as much as you can offer, and Jaskier had nothing left to give.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier leaned forward, elbows on knees. He considered waiting until Lilly was asleep, but she was a smart girl. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what had happened to him. “Geralt, what happened after? With Marx?”

“He left Novigrad.”

That couldn’t be all that Geralt knew. Jaskier waited, and Lilly was as quiet as a mouse. Probably trying not to get sent away so the adults could speak in private.

Geralt looked off into the darkness. “I’ve made inquiries. He returned to Cidaris and cancelled all his upcoming appearances. That’s all I found out before we left Novigrad.”

The intensity of the crease between Geralt’s eyebrows since the mention of Marx’s name didn’t ease.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Jaskier asked.

“I met a man named Gregor.” Geralt started and stopped, shifting with unease.

Jaskier’s stomach did a flip. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“He’s alive. Did he hurt you?”

“He was Marx’s man. Wait, hear me out,” Jaskier rushed. “When Marx used the pendant to mess with my head, Gregor looked after me. It was his plan we enacted to take Marx’s pendant and put an end to his manipulations. I owe him.”

“You don’t owe him shit. He told me Marx killed you.”

“You thought I was dead?”

Geralt nodded. “Drowned.”

“Why did you look for me?”

“If I couldn’t save you, the least I could do was ensure a proper burial.”

“I would make a terrible wraith, wouldn’t I?”

Geralt stared into the fire. Apparently, he hadn’t liked the joke. Jaskier cleared his throat. “And what happened to Gregor?”

“He situated himself at Crippled Kate’s. I ran into him when I picked up our belongings.”

“And Felicity?”

“Who?”

“No one. Just another pawn in Marx’s games.”

The fire crackled, and Lilly lay down with the blanket wrapped around her. Her eyes were closed and her breathing even with sleep when Geralt continued.

“Do you want to settle the score with Marx?”

“Of course I do,” Jaskier said, but Geralt’s expression hinted at more than that. “Or no, I see what’s going on here. You want my blessing to seek revenge on my behalf.” The answering silence confirmed his suspicion. “If the slug were to fall into an open pool of lava, I would not consider his death as a loss. But you’re no hired thug. I’d never ask that of you.”

“I’m offering.”

“Don’t.” The campfire flickered in the dark. “Look at what revenge has brought me so far. It’s not a path I care to follow any further, and I won’t allow you to follow it for me. Marx is ruined. I can be content with that. I need to show you something.” Jaskier got up and found the journal he’d stolen from Marx tucked away in his bag. He passed it to Geralt.

“What’s this?”

“Marx had it. Said there were mages interested in the experiments described inside. Your name is in there, Geralt.” Jaskier waited while Geralt thumbed through the pages, his expression darkening.

“I’ll take it to Vesemir. He’ll know what to do.” Geralt flipped the book closed and placed it with his items.

They sat and watched as flames burned down to embers. “One song before we turn in?” Geralt asked.

The request surprised Jaskier, but he picked up his lute. He didn’t need light to play by, and he tested a few chords before falling into a tune. The words played through his head as he strummed the notes. A song about the woman of wailing bridge: her lover had either died or abandoned her, depending on the version. Legend had it she stood on that bridge singing for her love’s return until she died of old age.

Jaskier’s eyes stung and he bit his cheek to keep his emotions at bay as Geralt’s sang in a low tone and gave the song life.


	20. Destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt bit back the anger simmering within, careful not to let it boil over. Marx had done this. The wrongs the Cidarian troubadour committed against Jaskier deserved a death sentence._

They chanced on a family travelling the same direction. A woman and two children. Boys, no older than ten. The taller of the two pointed at Geralt and whispered to the other as they drew closer. The woman walked with a slight stoop and favoured her right leg. The children followed behind as a tired old nag, his coat scruffy and patchy and his body too thin, pulling a weather-worn covered wagon. 

Geralt glanced at the wagon as he passed. This was no simple trip to the market. Household belongings, linens, and an ornate chest crowded the inside. Only a narrow space had been left for sleeping.

Lilly ran up to the boys. “Hey, where are you headed? What are your names?” 

They shied away and scurried closer to their mother. The woman pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and glanced at the Witcher warily. 

Smart. Tugging lightly on Roach’s reins, Geralt increased his pace. The sooner they passed, the sooner the family could relax. 

Jaskier had other plans. “Well met,” the bard greeted the woman. “It is always a pleasure to encounter company on a lonely road.” Geralt already heard the strain on Jaskier’s voice as he tried to minimize the roughness in his tone. 

“Is it?” 

“It is indeed,” Jaskier assured her. “You will find no fairer companionship. Ahead of us walks my dear friend Geralt, I am Jaskier, and the young lady to the left is Lilly.” 

The woman stared ahead. Her heart pounded rapidly. “Jaskier,” Geralt called back. “Stop pestering the woman.” 

Jaskier faltered only momentarily in his step. “We are travelling to Ellander,” Jaskier said. “And you?” 

“Vizima,” she answered. Even from where he walked ahead, Geralt felt the tension rolling off her. “I’ve nothing of value. Even the horse is old and sick, more of a hindrance than anything.” 

“Ah, I see. My apologies, madam, for intruding on your goodwill.” Jaskier bowed respectfully and quickened his stride to catch up to Geralt. 

“Wait, sir,” the woman called after him. “If you mean no harm, I don’t mind company.” 

Jaskier twirled to face her, walking backwards. “If you are fearful of bandits, Geralt is the best protection any weary traveller could hope for. Perhaps we should travel together.” 

“I’ve nothing to pay you. Our landlords drove us off after my husband died, found someone else to work the land.” The young widow wrung her hands and glanced back at her wagon and children. 

Jaskier coughed. “Shared meals and good company are their own reward.”

Geralt slowed to walk alongside. “And a place in your wagon for my companion.” He looked pointedly at Jaskier. “Should he need it.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered. 

“I don’t need it.” Jaskier insisted. 

“Then it’s there if you want it,” Geralt amended. Jaskier pulled a sour face, brow furrowed and refused any further attempts Geralt made to catch his attention. Geralt brushed it off and let Jaskier be. He dropped back and mounted Roach to trail behind the wagon, the best place to keep a close eye on those he wished to protect. 

At least the bard didn’t take his temper out on anyone else. Jaskier kept to the front with Lilly and the widow’s children, trading riddles and songs. A nonsensical verse started up, the kind that could carry on forever so long as they added new rhymes to it. The dog even joined in the fun as the kids threw sticks into the forest for her to fetch.

The trail led uphill, and the trees opened to rocky, barren fields, and the sun beat down without respite. The conversation up ahead lagged, but Geralt didn’t pay attention. Nyx barked. 

“Sir,” The young widow fell back to walk beside his horse. She bit her lip and played with the end of her braid. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I must ask, is all well with your travelling companion?”

“What do you mean?”” 

“The children were enjoying his company earlier. Now he won’t even acknowledge when they speak to him. I understand that men often—”

“Jaskier doesn’t mean to be rude. It’s fatigue.” Geralt swung his leg over the saddle to dismount. 

“An illness?” The widow walked faster to keep up beside him. “Not the fever, I hope?” her voice quavered. 

“Injury,” Geralt said. “How long has he been silent?”

“Half an hour since I noticed, perhaps more.” 

Lilly walked at Jaskier’s side; her hand wrapped around his wrist. “Geralt,” she cried when she spotted him coming closer. “His head started aching him, but he told me not to tell you. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do.” 

“Draw a halt and ready space for my friend to lie down in your wagon,” Geralt told the widow and took Lilly’s place at Jaskier’s side. The bard walked forward, eyes fixed to the road ahead, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Nyx nuzzled his leg and made plaintive noises. Geralt took Jaskier's arm and maneuvered him to the side, away from the widow and her children. “Lilly, go join the others.” 

“No, I want to help.” 

“Now.” He didn’t have time to argue with the girl. “Jaskier.” 

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, trembling, tense under Geralt’s hold. 

“Jaskier, talk to me.” 

He took quick breaths. “I don’t know how to fight it.” 

“Jaskier, fight what? Look at me.” 

Jaskier blinked. “Geralt?” And he collapsed forward, throwing his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “I tried, but he was in my head,” Jaskier whispered. “I didn’t know how to stop him. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Geralt bit back the anger simmering within, careful not to let it boil over. Marx had done this. The wrongs the Cidarian troubadour committed against Jaskier deserved a death sentence. Still, he couldn't go after Marx until Jaskier was safely settled. “You’re safe now.” Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and patted his back. “Come. Follow me.” 

He led Jaskier to the wagon and helped him in. The widow spread out some blankets, and Geralt helped Jaskier lay down. 

“Don’t let him take me,” Jaskier pleaded. 

“He won’t,” Geralt assured him. The only thing that mattered now was getting Jaskier to rest. “I’ll take care of it.” 

And finally, Jaskier closed his eyes and passed out. Nyx jumped up beside him before anyone could stop her and growled when Geralt reached to pull her out. Fine, if the dog wanted to ride along, Geralt wouldn’t force the issue. 

“We can keep going now. Jaskier will likely sleep for the rest of the day.” 

“The poor dear.” The woman glanced at the wagon with a sad expression. “He seems like a kind man. Is his ailment permanent?”

“No,” Geralt answered without pause. “Proper rest will suffice.” 

“Yes, sir.” The widow said, bowing her head in respect, not daring to look him in the eye. 

“My name’s Geralt,” he told her, but she’d already walked on to tend to her boys. 

Jaskier woke up when the wagons stopped to make camp for supper. He climbed out of the wagon, stumbled to the side of the clearing, and sat on the grass. His hands fidgeted, rolling the green blades between his fingers. 

Geralt hoped the nap would be enough for Jaskier to forget about their earlier disagreement. He finished tending to Roach and sat in the grass beside Jaskier. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick of being asked how I feel.” 

“Fair enough. You had another episode.” 

“Is that what we’re calling them?” 

“You told Lilly not to tell me you were tired.” 

“Little snitch.” 

“You’re not well, Jaskier.” 

“I know. You want me to admit that you were right? You were right. I needed the place in the wagon.” 

Geralt nodded. “What happened this afternoon—Do you remember?” 

Jaskier went back to rolling the grass between his fingers. “No.” 

Whether that meant he didn’t remember, or he didn’t want to talk about it, Geralt didn’t know. He suspected the latter.

“I’m alright, Geralt. Give me a few minutes. I’ll be fine.” 

Geralt gave him space but stayed close. The last few days since leaving Novigrad had been worse than he’d expected. He’d pushed Jaskier to travel too soon. He was still too weak. 

Jaskier roused him from his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder. “Geralt, I’m sorry.”

“Feeling better?” Geralt asked and winced, remembering Jaskier’s earlier annoyance. But this time, Jaskier only grinned in response. 

“Much better,” he answered and pulled Geralt into a hug. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

Jaskier shrugged. “Everything.” 

They joined the others around the cooking pot. Nyx curled up beside Jaskier’s knees, and Geralt reached over to pat her head. The motion had him leaning into Jaskier’s space, but rather than pull away, Jaskier leaned in, and Geralt felt the bard’s lips brush against his temple. 

“Can I sleep under the wagon with the boys tonight?” Lilly asked.

The intrusion broke the moment, and Geralt sat up. Jaskier glanced away. “Why are you asking me?” Geralt asked back.

“Please? Mrs. Rose said I should ask first.” 

So long as the girl was safe and warm, he didn’t see why it mattered where she slept. 

The lute came out after supper, Jaskier strummed the beginning chords of Toss a Coin. Lilly clapped her hands and started singing right away. 

Jaskier smiled and encouraged the widow and children to join Lilly in the chorus. He played well into nightfall, and when Jaskier lay down to sleep, and Geralt joined him. 

The next day continued with Jaskier thinking up games and songs for the children. Lilly stayed by his side. This time, Jaskier went on his own to rest in the wagon at midmorning. They similarly passed two more days, and so long as Jaskier took the time to rest, there were no more episodes like the first day.

They parted ways outside Vizima. Lilly hugged the widow and her children. The widow tugged Jaskier aside, and they talked for a moment before exchanging a heartfelt hug and parting. Jaskier sent them away with silly rhymes about their names and waved as their paths diverged. 

“Miriam confided in me that her cousin is unaware of their impending visit.” 

“Who the fuck is Miriam?” 

“Seriously, Geralt?” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “The widow. The children’s names are Rory and Drea. They’ve never been to the city before. I hope they’ll find it as welcoming as they expect.” 

“They seem resourceful,” Geralt answered. 

“Her husband died from an infected snake bite. She asked if my daughter and I would be interested in joining her.” Jaskier laughed. “I’m no use to anyone like this. And can you imagine me as a father? Absurd. I’m not the type of person anyone should rely on.” He cast a look Lilly’s way, then looked back toward the window’s wagon one more time before striding ahead. 

That evening campfire felt unnaturally quiet, and Jaskier did not pull out his lute to play. An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them, and Geralt couldn’t help but think of their impending destination.

“Nenneke will have a place for you.” 

“This again?” Jaskier yawned. “What if she refuses?” 

“She won’t.”

“Will I be able to stay with you at the Temple?” Lilly asked. 

“I’ve no doubt Nenneke will adore you at first sight,” Jaskier answered.

“You’ll be able to attend Temple school,” Geralt added and told her all about the healing school and priestesses there as she drifted to sleep. 

Once the girl was asleep, Jaskier’s expression turned grim. “Geralt, I’m not so certain I’ll be welcome. Nenneke thinks of you as family. I’m the bad influence who gets you in trouble.” 

Geralt snorted.

“I heard what she said about me. The astonishment that you’d let someone like me travel with you. What was it? Oh, yes. You should take me out into a desert and leave me there. And should I mention your dear friend, Lord Blowhole—” 

“Lord Bloughnole,” Geralt corrected. “He’s not a friend.”

“Lord Blowhole,” Jaskier insisted with a laugh, “who said you should rob, strangle, and throw me in a pit and bury me with dung.” 

“To be fair, you’d just spoiled his daughter’s plans to marry.” 

Jaskier sat up. “Bullshit. I ruined nothing. By the way, the daughter’s name was Vanessa, and she's the one who orchestrated the affair between her fiancé and me to get out of the union. If you paid attention to people rather than looking past them, you’d see half the trouble I get into isn't always as frivolous as you think.” 

“I don’t want to argue.” 

“Who’s arguing? Not me. I’m simply pointing out that friends of yours are not necessarily friends of mine.” Jaskier sighed and flopped back down. “In any case, I’m destitute, and I need to consider how—” 

“Nenneke will not turn you away.” 

“And I’ll not stay where I’m not wanted.” Jaskier mimicked back. “I refuse to spend the rest of my days languishing in a sacred temple.” 

Lilly wiggled closer to Jaskier. “I’m not staying if you aren’t!” 

“You are supposed to be asleep,” Jaskier admonished as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. 

“He’s staying at the temple,” Geralt told the girl, looking pointedly at Jaskier. “Promise me you’ll stay with Nenneke until you’re fit to travel.” 

“We’re travelling now. I haven’t perished yet. Yes. Fine. I know what you mean.” 

“Until you’re no longer affected by headaches through the day.” Geralt insisted. 

“I’ll do what pleases me,” Jaskier insisted. 

“Promise me you’ll take precautions.” 

Jaskier threw a pebble at Geralt’s face. “And you too, you big lummox. Don’t go hunting anything too interesting without your trusty bard to immortalize your adventures and sing your praises.” 

“Deal.” Geralt agreed. 

~~~

Their last day of travel felt more solemn than the rest. Though wildflowers framed their path, Jaskier didn’t comment on the smells and colours, nor did he hum or sing. Lilly walked behind them, kicking stones, and ignored all of Nyx’s attempts to play. 

Geralt called a halt when they were within an hour of the Temple. Lilly stopped to pick wildflowers and weave them into a crown. Jaskier lay down on the grass and stared up at the sky.

“Where are you going from here?” Jaskier asked. 

“North.” The dog nosed at Geralt’s hand, and he pet her head. “There’s something I need to take care of.” 

“What something?” Jaskier glanced over. “Are you worried I won’t approve of this _something_ , or that I’ll try to follow?” 

“It’s not that.”

“Sure, it isn’t.” 

Geralt didn’t want to leave it at that. He didn’t want their last day together to be sour. “Did I ever tell you about my brother’s reaction the first time he heard your ‘Toss A Coin’ song?” 

“You did not. “How long did it take for it to reach them?”

“One summer. Apparently, the song was a hit in Povis.”

“Did they like it?” 

Geralt chuckled. “He felt he was being made fun of and suspected the free ale was poisoned.” 

Jaskier laughed. “I hope no one was hurt.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting around and talking about old adventures. Lilly made crowns for all three of them. 

“Well,” Jaskier said and stood up. “Ready?” 

Geralt wasn’t ready. “Yeah.” 

It didn’t take long for the grey stone walls to come into view. The temple resembled a fortress without guards or gates. They walked up the path toward the tower, and a strong-boned elderly woman with shoulder-length, wavy, greying hair walked out to meet them. 

“Geralt,” she said, then smiled at the girl. Her lips thinned when she turned to Jaskier. “Bard. I’ve been expecting you.” 

  



	21. An Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Nenneke write letters to Geralt.

Dearest Geralt,

(As dictated to Leyla, Priestess of Melitele)

I hope this letter finds you well and rested, my friend. Your absence is greatly felt in Ellander, both by Nenneke and myself. She reminds me daily what a fine friend you are to have seen me through my ‘troubles’. I agree most sincerely. 

As much as I miss your companionship, you will be pleased to hear I am not alone. Leyla, my current helpmate and scribe, is the Temple’s most esteemed gardener. In her younger years, she was a soldier in the Temerian infantry. She is, undoubtedly, the most flexible former-soldier I have ever met. I think, if poetry should ever cease to be an option, I would be pleased to take up gardening. 

I am well enough. Though Nenneke seems confident that these are merely side effects and not permanent afflictions, the fatigue and vision issues remain. Either way, I am sure I will be back on the road sooner rather than later. Perhaps not as I was, but I will make the most of what I have.

Our Lilly is faring splendidly. Nenneke has all but adopted her. Lilly wants me to inform you that she is happy and well cared for and that she will write you copious amounts of letters once she has learned how to read and write. She is an enthusiastic learner, and you will not have to wait long. 

I have had the recent delight to arrange an open-air poetry reading for the adepts. All participants were overjoyed to share their favourite selections. It is not my fault that Lady Grabatush chose that afternoon for a visit. She complained the subject matter went against her moral values. As if this is a temple of blushing virgins. Ha, the adepts are far wiser in the ways of human nature than the average Novigradian. 

Speaking of which, are you acquainted with the herbalist’s apprentice, Ferdinand? He is a charming young man with the most astounding grey eyes. His features are so delicate that I can not help but speculate there must be a fraction of elven heritage in him.

Yours Always, Jaskier

~~~

Witcher Geralt,

Your ward, Lilly, has potential. Thank you for bringing me such a bright youth. 

The bard is settling into our care nicely. My assessment of his condition stands; he requires rest and meditation. As he is incapable of these two tasks, I have entrusted his care to our gardener. Picking weeds will hopefully limit the mischief he gets into. 

Thus far, he has succeeded in insulting an esteemed guest by inciting the adepts to a recital of erotic poetry. An interesting conversation ensued in which we debated the merits of bawdy jigs being classified as an intellectual pursuit of culture. We have yet to come to an acceptable compromise. 

On a brighter note, he seems to have a greater interest than I expected in herbalism. He shows a surprising natural instinct for understanding the lessons our Herbalist’s apprentice taught him.

The pendant you brought is of much concern. It is being studied by an expert in magic to determine the best method for disposal. She worries that outright destruction may leave a lasting impression on those it swayed. Thus, we are proceeding with the utmost caution. 

Sincerely, Nenneke

~~~

Dearest Geralt,

It is with pleasure that I take my own quill to paper again. 

I had the most exciting visitor. A certain raven-haired sorceress stopped by to ‘assess my health.’ Should I turn into a toad or fall to some other unfortunate curse, I will blame the foul-tasting brews she prescribed. I find it highly suspect that she wishes me to keep her visit, and her vile mixtures, a secret. 

We spent a surprisingly pleasant afternoon discussing the history of royal ancestral lines of the Northern Kingdoms.

Our mutual acquaintance has also informed me of the recent developments of our infamous Troubadour of Cidaris. He was revealed to be a fraud upon arriving in Cidaris. The consensus is that Valdo Marx faked his performances by hiding a more talented singer behind a curtain. Amazing. He has subsequently been expelled from the ranks of scholarship at Oxenfurt Academy. 

An upcoming Gwent Tournament is to be hosted by the local tavern in the neighbouring town of Falldale. Ferdinand assures me that it is only a half-hour hike from here. Don’t worry, I will not travel by myself, Ferdinand has agreed to be my companion.

Are you aware there is such a thing as a ‘dream herb,’ aka Bitter Root? It is one of the ingredients of the tea that Nenneke has been brewing for me. Who knew herbalism could be so fascinating?

Yours Always, Jaskier

~~~

Witcher Geralt,

Thank Melitele, I have good news. Your bard’s health is nearly fully restored. Fatigue remains an issue, but I trust with time, that too will improve. He has decided to stay with us and has accepted a teaching position at the temple. I have high hopes that this indicates a change for the better in the poet. Stability and positive surroundings have worked wonders on his habits. 

Sincerely Nenneke

~~~

Witcher Geralt,

I expected trouble and was not disappointed. The bard is a bad influence upon all who make his acquaintance. I had hoped he’d adapted to a more sensible way of life among us. As that is not the case, I have terminated his employment at the school. I will not allow him to anyone else into foolish exploits.

He lured the Herbalist’s apprentice into his troubles. The poor young man followed your bard to a gambling tournament and nearly paid for it with his life. It is only with Melitele’s blessing that they returned at all. Don't worry, your bard suffered no more than a sound thrashing and a sprained ankle, which I am confident he thoroughly deserved. As penance, I ordered him confined to his rooms to translate a collection of elven poetry. I will train good manners into him during his stay here if Melitele wills it.

Sincerely, Nenneke

~~~

Dearest Geralt,

The Priestess has informed me she intends to relay my misdeeds to you in letter form as if I’m a wayward child. Expect her account to be overly dramatic and exaggerated. I assured her that you have more important matters to consider than hearing about the sordid tales of my alleged misdeeds. As you were the one to deposit me here, she apparently blames you for my presence. As she should. Did I not tell you this was a terrible idea? 

Did she mention she confined me to my room? An utterly unnecessary action as I managed to sprain my ankle on the backside of the whoreson who accused me of cheating on the final round at the Gwent Tournament. Where does she expect me to go? To top it off, she has given me a translation assignment. At least it will pass the time of my imprisonment. 

P.S. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to elven literature in my days at the Academy. Though it can be overly verbose, the words’ lyrical value when spoken aloud in Elder is exquisite. To translate the work takes great effort to maintain the integrity of the original work. Remind me to read it to you when next we meet. 

Yours Always, Jaskier

~~~

Witcher Geralt,

Young Lilly fares well. Though she shows a propensity towards taking advantage of situations that come her way to make a profit, she has otherwise adjusted to the propriety and good manners expected of an adept. 

An agent from Redania arrived in search of a certain J.A. Pankratz, Viscount. He informed me that Dijkstra, a political intelligence official, offers a large reward for any information that may lead to finding his quarry. I sent the man away. The agent was not deterred by my dismissal and has taken up residence in the neighbouring village to pursue his quarry.

Rest assured, all who reside at the Temple are under my protection. 

I am quite pleased with the translation your bard completed while recuperating from his gambling brawl. He has taken up the quill to help translate subsequent projects without complaint. Should your bard decide to repent of his ways and turn to a path of morality, I would be amenable to take him on as a scribe. 

Sincerely, Nenneke

~~~

Witcher Geralt,

Since I posted my last letter, a string of unfortunate events have transpired. A thief broke into the temple, took the life of my dear gardener Leyla, and ransacked our temple treasury. The only item not accounted for in our inventory was the enchanted pendant. Few knew of the artifact’s presence, and I intend to investigate the matter thoroughly. 

The bard has left my care even though I advised him not to. I fear he blames himself for Leyla’s death. I found an invitation from Countess de Stael to attend a function at her estate among the things he left behind in his haste to leave. I will pray to Melitele that he finds safety and his travel will be free from strife. 

The scamp took my herbalist’s apprentice with him. The young man is fit and will undoubtedly make an adequate travelling companion. 

Sincerely Nenneke

~~~

Dearest Geralt,

A rumour passed my ear that Valdo Marx has not been seen or heard from since his expulsion from Cidarian high society. I am glad that you travelled north, my friend, as it saddens me to imagine you involved in any such matters. But, even if your travels did take you in that direction, I wouldn’t think any less of you.

Whatever comes to pass, I have always valued our friendship and will continue to do so. Thank you for everything you have done for me. May good luck follow you everywhere you go. If our paths never cross again, know that you hold my heart, and I love you. 

Yours Always, Jaskier

~~~

Geralt looked out over the parapets of Kaer Morhen and the snow blocking the passage south. “Are you sure there weren’t any more letters?” he asked Lambert yet again. 

Lambert rolled his eyes. “You get a satchel full of letters, and you’re still complaining it’s not enough? Don’t be a diva. What were you hoping for?” 

“Nothing.” Geralt rested his elbows on the parapet. “Still no word from Eskel?” 

Lambert clenched his jaw and looked out over the snowy peaks. “It’s unlike him not to return.”

Geralt wished he could say otherwise. No one questioned if Lambert didn’t return to Kaer Morhen for a season or two, but Eskel always came home. Lambert and Vesemir didn’t hold it against Geralt that he chose to head south rather than participate in the search for the missing witcher. Jaskier’s last letter had read too much like a goodbye. 

As soon as the snow melted on the pass, Geralt travelled south to Zhoda, the easternmost village in Redania along the Pontar River. A late blizzard and slow thaw had left snow clinging to ditches and the shaded forest trees. Puddles of mud crusted in ice made for hazardous travel. This was their traditional meeting place, and Jaskier played at Zhoda’s spring festival every year since they’d begun travelling together. 

This year, Geralt didn’t know what to expect. Jaskier would be a fool to follow his regular routine while trying to evade Redanian Intelligence. But Geralt needed to start somewhere.

The rowdy singing from within the tavern rang out into the street—many voices, likely drunk, raised in merriment in celebration of the Spring Crocus Festival. A poster nailed to the wall highlighted the performance of a Novigradian romantic poet, Callonetta. More names; of bards, jugglers, and fire swallowers were scrawled across the bottom of the poster. None of them were Jaskier.

Geralt walked in, intending to order a meal before checking into a room that night. Villagers sat shoulder to shoulder at the tables, and those without tables stood clapping along with the music. A woman in brightly coloured clothing sang to the accompaniment of a hurdy-gurdy. Geralt backed off and exited as briskly as he’d entered. He needed to eat and move on, and the likelihood of receiving decent service in so packed a venue was slim to none. The door clattered shut behind him.

The singing from the tavern came to an awkward halt as the wailing of the hurdy-gurdy faded. Shouts rose, “ _Get the fuck back on stage_ ,” and another hollered, “ _Shut up,_ ” to which came the answer, “ _Shut your own self!_ ” 

It was a relief to leave the chaos of the tavern behind, and the sounds grew distant as he neared the inn. He passed Roach to the stablehand before heading inside for a room.

“I need a room for the night.” Geralt tossed a coin on the counter.

“Nothing left,” —the innkeeper grunted— “Festival week. There’s a traveller’s camp out in Nowak’s field. They might take you in if you’re lucky.”

“Where’s that?”

“Take a left out of town. Follow the trail there’s a—” 

The door swung open so hard it hit the wall with a bang. “He’s with me!” Jaskier stumbled in, tripped, skipped to right himself and tripped again, this time directly into Geralt. Geralt caught Jaskier around the waist just in time to keep them both from being knocked over. 

“I’ve got a room,” Jaskier panted, leaning against Geralt’s chest to catch his breath. 

“Rates are based on occupancy,” the innkeeper chimed in.

“Yeah,” Jaskier patted Geralt’s hand and slipped out of his grasp to pay. He twisted around and smiled back at Geralt. “You’re late.” 

“So is spring.” 

“Right, the snow. So, room five, this way,” Jaskier ran up the stairs, pausing halfway for Geralt to catch up. He fumbled the key in the lock and pushed the door open. It was a double room. Jaskier’s clothes were strewn everywhere, and he scurried around, grabbing things up, freeing the extra bed for Geralt. 

“Your name isn’t on the performer list.”

“Ah, that. I’m travelling incognito. Of a sort.”

“About that, what happened with Dijkstra’s agent?” 

“Nothing yet. I counted on you stopping here on your way to where ever you’re going. 

“Jaskier —”

“And here you are! You see, the gamble paid off. I’d say the bigger threat right now is Priscilla. I left as soon as I saw you; she’s going to skin me alive for running out in the middle of a song.” 

“That wasn’t a lute.” 

“My lute? No, that’s—fuck—I left my lute under the stage. Never mind, it should be safe. No, I was playing the hurdy-gurdy. You are aware I play several instruments, aren’t you?” 

“Never heard you play anything else.”

“No? Remind me next time we’re in Oxenfurt to bring you to the music room.”

“Your voice, you sound—”

“Amazing? Vibrant? Melodic?” Jaskier grinned. “A true miracle. Or so our sorceress acquaintance would prefer to have me tell the tale. Was it you who sent her? I suppose not. She insisted I not say a word to you about it. Did you get my letters?” 

“Yes.” Geralt cleared his throat. “How are you?” 

“Good. Good! You? How was your contract?” 

Geralt shrugged. “I took care of what I needed to.”

“Of course you did.” Jaskier drew in a breath as though to say more, journeyed through a series of facial expressions, and finally smiled. “It is good to see you.”

“You too.” 

“Well, then.” Jaskier sat on the bed and plucked at a loose thread on his trousers. “Are you just passing through? Can you stay for another couple of days? That is if Priscilla doesn’t run me off for ditching her so abruptly.” 

“How’s Lilly?” 

“She’s amazing. Learning suits her. She gets along great with the other girls and has no qualms about punching the ones she doesn’t. Nyx doesn’t leave Lilly’s side, and she’s such a good dog, the priestesses even let her into the school building. I was sorry to leave her behind, but she’ll be well-loved.”

Geralt moistened his lips. “And your plans? You mentioned Priscilla. Is she your partner?” 

“What? No! Gods, no. She has a lovely voice, though, doesn’t she? I’m merely accompanying her.”

“And the Countess de Stael?” Geralt asked. 

“Oh, how did you hear about that? You’ll be pleased to know I did not travel alone. My good friend Ferdinand accompanied me and is now the Countess’s newly appointed Master of Flowers. We had a lovely visit, and I was forgiven for my misadventures last winter,” Jaskier rolled his eyes and shrugged. “She offered me a position in her court. Any bard would be crazy to refuse it.” 

“Is that where you’re headed next?” 

“Who said I’m any bard?” Jaskier got up and crossed to Geralt’s bed. Geralt sat frozen in place as Jaskier sat at his side, so close their hips pressed together. “I know who my friends are. And I know who I want to be with. And you, my friend, what are your plans?”

Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s thigh. “You.”

Jaskier beamed. “Me?”

Geralt shifted to face Jaskier, and with his free hand, cupped Jaskier's chin. “I want to be with you.” 

Jaskier pressed his lips to Geralt's. No more than a feather-light, chaste kiss. “Yes.” Jaskier smiled again and placed his hand over Geralt’s. “I want that very much. Do you have a destination in mind?” 

Geralt’s moment of contentment faded as he considered deeper concerns. “My brother, Eskel, didn’t return to Kaer Morhen to winter this year. I mean to look for him.”

Jaskier froze. He grasped Geralt’s hand tightly. “Geralt,” he said and bit his lip. “Oh, fuck. Damn it.” 

“Jaskier, what is it?” 

Jaskier stood and paced the room. “I forgot. How could I forget?” He brought his hands to his head, noticeably trembling. 

Geralt stood, took a step forward. “Forget what?” 

“The journal. The journal about witchers. Marx said something. Something about—fuck. Where was Eskel last seen?” 

“He tends to hunt up north, around Povis and Kovir.” 

Jaskier reeled and braced a hand against the wall for balance. Geralt led him back to the bed. “Marx said a mage—a mage intent on continuing those experiments—captured a witcher in Povis.” 

THE END

(sequel under construction) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment. 💕  
> Even an emoji 😊 is greatly appreciated.  
> (Please, I am begging you for validation and attention.)

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr ](https://mai-of-rivia.tumblr.com/)for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills. I love talking about these awesome characters, DM me if you want to chat.  
> If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can [ do so here!](https://mai-of-rivia.tumblr.com/post/631346578624577536/valdo-marx-must-die-maimat-jaskiers-first-wish%0A/)


End file.
